Hare and Hatter
by Raeni12345
Summary: "It can't be." Hatter squinted his eyes at the ceramic-headed man standing on the front porch of his teashop. But deep down, he knew that it was.  A backstory on Hatter and Mad March. Not slash. Ratings jumped to M for disturbing content.
1. Chapter 1

"Twinkle twinkle, little bat," Mad March's mechanical voice taunted, with just a hint of a singsong. He chuckled. "Good-bye Hatter."

And with that, Mad March lunged toward Hatter, who was still helplessly strapped to the hard metal chair.

Hatter barely had time to think. His instincts took over and he kicked hard at the ground, sending his chair tipping backwards. The impact was painful and jarring, but it put Hatter out of the reach of Mad March's blade, and threw March off balance. Hatter kicked his legs into March's midsection, sending the man with the cookie-jar head stumbling backwards.

Mad March quickly regained himself, and in a rage threw himself back toward the bound man. But Hatter had taken the few seconds of reprieve to climb out of the chair, though his wrists were still bound to its arms, and he used it as a shield to parry the next couple of slashes.

He could see the man lunging at him again. If March's face wasn't made of expressionless ceramic, Hatter knew it would be twisted in rage. He could feel the emotion pouring off the man before him. It was time to end this.

At the last second, Hatter turned, and March's knife, instead of bouncing harmlessly off the chair once again, sliced through the binding and Hatter's skin, freeing his right wrist from the chair.

Mad March barely had the chance to realize he had just made a deadly mistake.

Hatter's sledgehammer fist drove itself into March's cookie jar head, shattering the ceramic into a thousand pieces.

Adrenaline still fueling his rage, Hatter continued to hit and punch and grind the gears and wires that the rabbit head had encompassed into the floor. He was positively shaking with rage and screaming in such a hideously unnatural tone that even the evil doctors were stricken with fear and went into hiding instead of intervening with the cattle prod.

And just as quickly as the maddening rage had overtaken him, it was gone. Hatter stared at the prone and headless man, lying on the floor in front of him, broken wires and ceramic shards mixed with the blood that was now seeping both from March's neck and Hatter's hand.

Hatter crawled across the floor, his left arm, still bound, dragging the heavy metal chair behind him, until he was hovering over March's body. He swallowed hard over a lump that threatened to choke him.

And then a heavy sob erupted through his body, then another, and another. He put his right arm down on March's chest, and buried his head in the crook of his elbow, and let the waves of emotion wash over him as he cried like a child.

"The Hares and the Hatters, we've always looked out for each other," he wailed into the cold, dead body of one March Hare.

…

**AN: Uh oh. And so starts another tale.**


	2. Chapter 2

He was eleven years old, far too young to be on his own in Wonderland city's harsh streets. But after his mother had been taken, dragged from their home by suits, Andy was fearful to go back to the empty apartment. Afraid of being there by himself. Afraid that the suits might come back and take him too. More afraid, now, of his home then of the dangers of spending the night on the streets of the lower city.

It was always quite dark in the lower city, the streets receiving no daylight, as the sky was so many dozens of levels up, and largely obscured by bridges and buildings and plants. But nighttime in the lower city was a depth of darkness that few would believe possible if they had not experienced it themselves.

Andy tucked his legs under his chin, and shivered against a wall. A group of young, half-crazed tea-heads, high on concoctions of whatever tea they could find, roamed about causing chaos, throwing rocks, and destroying whatever they could get their hands on. They passed Andy three times, thankfully never taking notice of the small urchin as he shrank as far from sight as he could. He had never felt so utterly terrified or alone.

As the deepest dark gave way to morning dark, Andy finally moved. He was freezing cold, being unprepared for spending the night outside, and he was hungry and thirsty. He hoped that somewhere he would be able to find something to eat.

He wandered through the streets that were just starting to wake up. He wasn't sure exactly where he was – only that his surroundings were completely unfamiliar. There were few houses on this level, mostly shops and storage. And they didn't appear to be food shops either, although Andy didn't have anything to trade anyway.

He contemplated going home, just long enough to get a coat and a bit of food, but he didn't exactly know where home was from here. He was lost and alone – his mother was gone, in the same way his father had been taken years earlier.

Andy's eyes filled with tears, causing the street to swim in front of him. And so he didn't notice the group of larger boys coming toward him until he crashed directly into one.

The boy couldn't have been much older then 16 or 17, but he was much taller and stronger then Andy was. In seconds, he had lifted the young boy off the ground by the front of his shirt, his legs kicking uselessly, and slammed him into a wall. Andy cried out in terror and pain, which just caused the other boys to laugh.

"Shouldn't go wandering the streets by yourself kid," the first boy sneered at him. "You wouldn't want to get hurt." And with that, he dropped the boy and kicked him as he fell.

Andy was terrified, and started blindly swinging and flailing at his assailant. His right fist made contact, not hard enough to cause any damage, but enough to enrage the older boy.

Within seconds, Andy felt a fist make very hard contact with his face, just below his eye. He dropped to the ground, the world starting to spin. The bully kicked him again, and grabbed him by the shirt, and seemed about to lift him from the ground again.

But then a loud whistle broke through the boy's taunting laughter, and Andy heard another another voice, louder and deeper.

"What've you got there, Fred? Best be picking on something your own size."

Fred started to curse, and released the boy's shirt immediately. Andy could hear him continue to swear at the newcomer as his voice and footsteps retreated.

Andy kept his face ducked, his body prone for a long moment before he finally peeked up at the man standing over him.

The first thing he saw was a glint of metal in the man's hand. A knife. Andy started quaking. Was this man going to kill him?

He ducked his head again, but after another long moment of silence, where the man didn't move away, Andy looked up once again. The knife was gone. Andy finally ventured to look further up, his eyes traversing the man's slender frame and finally reaching his face.

The man was a lot younger then Andy had expected him to be. Probably only six or seven years older then the boys that had been attacking him. His sandy brown hair curled, a little long, around his ears, and he had more then a three day's growth of beard on his cheeks. And there was a scar under his left eye – a memento of his first lost fight on Wonderland's streets.

He smirked at the kid on the ground, and growled out good naturedly, "About time you looked up."

Andy just stared at the man silently, eyes wide and scared.

"Look kid, I'm not gonna hurt you." The man rolled his eyes. "I prefer equal matches when I fight." He smirked again. "What's your name?"

"Andy," the young boy gulped. "Andy Hatter."

The man's expression changed from a cocky smirk to a look of surprise. "You're a Hatter?"

Andy cringed slightly and nodded.

A big grin split the face of the man standing over him, and he reached down a hand and pulled the boy to his feet, then clapped him on the back. "I'm March. March Hare."

At this, Andy's eyes grew wide. "You're a Hare?" he blurted, equally surprised.

March laughed a bit. "Yeah."

For a long moment, the two just stared at each other. Then March laughed. "Figures I'd find you. The Hares and the Hatters, we've always looked out for each other." Then he winked at the wide-eyed kid. "Can't break with tradition, now, can we?"

**AN: Hope you like it so far. More to come. Please review! I love reviews and they keep my muse inspired! **

**Cheers! Thanks for reading it so far. Hope you continue.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

"Besides, I like him!"

"Oh, you like him," Hatter could barely keep the disdain out of his voice.

"Yes," Alice answered, emphatically. When he just walked past her, she added in a yell, "A lot!"

That got his attention. He wheeled to face her. "Trust me, I... I know a thing or two about liking people, and in time, after much chocolate and cream cake, like turns into 'What's his name again?'" Frustrating oyster!

"No, not in my world," Alice hastily countered. "Look, I have a bad record with liking guys..."

Hatter smirked slightly. "There's a shock," he stated, turning once again turning toward the tea shop. He was just goading her by this point. They made better time when she was pissed off – it took her mind off of her fear of heights.

"... and this is the first one that has meant anything." She just kept going, scrambling along behind him, trying to convince him. "There is no way I am going to give him up now!"

Hatter had planned a biting comeback, but his thoughts froze as the tea shop came in sight, and he could see several people standing on the front porch. Several people and a freak with a white rabbit-head.

He motioned with his hand for Alice to shut up and stop. Thankfully, she understood and did as she was told.

"Stay close," he said to her, and darted forward from the end of the wall to the red call box that stood on the far side of the bridge from his tea shop.

…

From his new vantage he could see what was going on, and hear snatches of what was being said.

There were about six suits, including the Ten of Clubs. Hatter felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. The Ten was a high ranking official. If he was sent, it meant serious trouble. And the rabbit-head was likely one of the queen's assassins. His heart sank even further when he noticed a rather animated Ratty speaking directly to the Ten of Clubs. Even though he couldn't hear what Ratty was saying, he knew it didn't bode well for him.

"Hey! Look at me! Did you see her?" The mechanical voice coming from the rabbit-head rang clearly across the span. Hatter glared over at the rabbit-head, dismayed to see him shaking one of the tea-sellers. Then the mechanical man gave a disgusted grunt and said, "Get outta here!" and tossed the poor seller off the porch. The man bounced once at the edge of the bridge before rolling off and plummeting to his death with a terrified scream.

Hatter groaned, and hit the side of the call-box in frustration. They knew. Somehow, they knew that he had the oyster. He was a dead man if they caught him. His world was unraveling fast. Within the day, he had gone from everyone's graces, to being on the hit list for both the Resistance and the Suits.

His glance fell to Ratty, and his eyes steeled. "Work with rats long enough, you turn into one, eh?" he said darkly. He was doomed.

"What is that?" Alice's voice focused his attention back on the man with the white rabbit head.

"Nothing I've ever seen before," Hatter stated, staring intently across the bridge at the... creature. The rabbit-head had stepped to the edge of the stairs, and for the first time, Hatter got a good look at him.

A shiver prickled up his spine and set off alarm bells in his head. There was something frighteningly familiar about the specter in front of him. "Wait..." he found himself saying. The carriage of the man, the callous way he had just tossed a man to his death, the strange accent that permeated the mechanical voice..

As if on cue, the rabbit-head turned and looked, facelessly, across the bridge, directly at him. Hatter recoiled slightly, horror gripping his stomach like an icy hand. "It can't be..." The words fell from his mouth before he could stop them. Inside, he was screaming.

No! March was dead! March was dead! The queen had him beheaded! Though that would explain the ceramic rabbit head... maybe.

But there was no more time to think. The rabbit-head was now striding swiftly across the bridge toward him, and the suits were massing behind him.

Alice had already started to run away, and Hatter quickly followed suit. This couldn't be happening. It felt like a strange nightmare. Maybe that's what it was – a dream.

Hatter paused and stared back again – for a moment, frozen in place, watching the rabbit-eared assassin striding after him. He now had little doubt, though his mind still screamed at the impossibility.

"What?" He shook back to the present, hearing Alice's voice at his back.

"We should run," Hatter turned and pushed Alice slightly. A wave of panic hit him and he cried out, "Run!" his voice coming out strangled and high. "Quickly!" And with that he tore past her, and toward a covered bridge.

If that creature was March, then Hatter needed to get out of the city. March knew all of his hiding spots.

**AN: Please review (constructive criticism welcome). Reviews keep my muse happily plugging away.**

**Cheers!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

There were hundreds and thousands of doors in the city. Doors on every level, matching every description imaginable. However, not all of them led somewhere. Many doors opened to reveal a blank wall, rather then a room or a passageway. Other doors opened to hallways with no additional doors in them. Some doors, if opened, took the opener to a different place in the city entirely. And a very few doors never opened to the same place twice.

Perhaps it was a bit of Wonderland magic that had somehow survived from the days when wondrous chaos defined what Wonderland was. Whatever it was, it proved advantageous when wanting to keep away unwelcome visitors. If a person wanted to hide, all they had to do was change their door.

The door in the old Hatter apartment had been on the west wall when Andy had gone to sleep that night. He had been frightened that the suits would come back and find him and drag him away. March had finally managed to convince him that he would keep him safe, and finally Andy had relented and they had found the old apartment and settled in.

When Andy woke up the next morning, the door was in the north wall, next to the stove. He stared dumbfounded at March, who grinned at him. "See, told you I'd keep you safe. They'll never find us now."

…

**AN: Bit of a filler piece, but it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. More chapters to come! Stay tuned.**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Struggling a bit with this part of the story. I know where it wants to go, but that's a few chapters down the line. Let me know what you think so far. Constructive criticism always welcome, as are reviews in general. Thanks for reading. Without further ado, here's chapter 5.  
**

March looked down, off the side of the bed, at Andy sleeping on his mat on the floor. He grinned a bit at the sight of the battered pork-pie hat, still lopsided on Andy's head. Even when he slept, the boy rarely took it off.

They had found it in the back of the closet of the apartment, in a box of Andy's father's things. Apparently the hat had been a gift to Andy's father from his uncle Madigan. March had dropped it on Andy's head and told him it was his lucky hat, and Andy was seldom without it since.

It had been two years since he had found Andy, beaten up on the street. And as much as it had been a stretch at first to accommodate a needy kid with no survival skills, March now couldn't imagine what life would be without him.

He was like a little brother – looking up to March, trying to emulate him. And March protected him fiercely. As time passed, people had learned – Hatter and Hare, you mess with one, you're messing with both.

Not that Andy was much of a threat physically. He was still small for his age, and his fighting skills were limited by his lack of strength and his tendency to lose focus if a fight wasn't going his way and just start wildly swinging. March, on the other hand, was an excellent fighter, with an intimidating reputation on the street.

But Andy had been a fast learner, picking up most anything that March would teach him – basic survival, fighting, pickpocketing, con jobs. The last two were what Andy truly excelled in. When it came to conning people, Andy was brilliant.

Not that tea-heads were all that difficult to con. But Andy had a trustworthy face and just the right way with words. Most people never realized they had been conned until long after Andy was gone with their goods. And that had made their lives infinitely more comfortable.

…

Things were not going in Andy's favor.

Andy had seen the suit, an 8 of spades by his jacket, wandering about on the streets, his eyes glazed, looking rather strung out on tea. It had looked like an easy hit. A quick bump and grab.

March had warned Andy that suits, although profitable, were high risk hits. They were typically trained fighters, usually armed, and they were rarely alone. And under normal circumstances, Andy probably would have simply passed the man by. But pickings had been slim lately – he had only managed to swipe or con a couple of bottles of tea and a few coins in the last couple of weeks. It had barely been enough to trade for food.

He had passed by the man twice, checking for any companions and seeing none. He looked for a tell-tale bulge in the back of the man's jacket – also none. He wasn't armed.

He waited until a narrow stretch of sidewalk, then he rushed by, jostling the man, and swiped a small collection of coins from his pocket.

But, tea-soaked as he was, the man sensed what Andy was about, and grabbed him by the arm, rather roughly. Andy gave a startled cry and dropped the coins. He struggled for a moment in the suit's vice-like grip, before kicking hard into the man's shin.

The eight of spades yowled and let go. Andy raced away, fully intent on disappearing in the familiar streets. But then he heard a loud BANG and turned slightly to see two other suits bearing down on him. And one of them had a gun.

Terrified, he dashed around the corner, and down a covered walkway. The suits gave chase, and another round was fired in his direction, thankfully missing.

He emerged from the other end of the walkway, still trying desperately to lose his pursuers. But now he was faced with a long, straight stretch of sidewalk, with nowhere to dodge a potential bullet in the back. At the last minute, he raced around the side of the walkway and ducked, hoping that they wouldn't see him.

Seconds later, the two suits emerged, at a run, but paused immediately when they didn't see the boy on the sidewalk ahead. Andy held his breath, hoping that they would leave.

It took only a few moments for the suits to find him. A six of spades grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him roughly to his feet. "What've we got here?" he sneered at the boy.

This is it, Andy thought. They're going to take me away now.

But then he heard the most welcome sound in the world. A whistle sounded from behind the men, and they turned, for the moment forgetting the boy in front of them.

March took out the first with a swift fist to the jaw, so quickly that the man didn't have time to react. The six of spades was on him in a moment, and too late, March saw the pin on his lapel – a White Rabbit.

"Shit!" March swore out loud. You just didn't tangle with White Rabbit. They were a highly militant group, a small army in their own right, used by the queen to infiltrate the oyster world and to maintain order in Wonderland. And they were highly loyal to each other. To tangle with one was to make yourself an instant target.

And so, he chose the only option possible. To lose the fight and hope that the White Rabbit would just give him a sound beating and forget about it.

Andy watched in horror as the suit began to get the upper hand, slugging March hard in the face, over and over. March dropped to his knees with a groan, and the suit proceeded to knee him in the chest, then in the face.

He knew it was all his fault. And he couldn't bear to see the pain being inflicted on his only friend. With a loud, strange howl, he sprang forward to the fallen suit and grabbed the gun. Then he wheeled around to face the six of spades.

His hands were shaking as he pointed the gun at the suit. "STOP!" he yelled.

Both March and the suit froze, staring at the boy.

"Shit, kid, don't be stupid!" March yelled in warning. Don't shoot, he pleaded silently.

The suit sneered at Andy, noting the boy's uncomfortable grip on the weapon. He started toward him, closing the gap rather swiftly.

"Stop!" Andy yelled again, but this time his voice was wavering. March was staring at him, warning him, alarm written all over his face..

The suit reached Andy and grabbed at the gun. Andy fought him, struggling to hold onto the weapon. March was still on the ground, watching the struggle with wide-eyed horror...

… as the gun went off. The bullet tore through the man's suit jacket, tearing a hole through it. And dark red began to ooze through the hole. The man dropped to the ground, writhing and swearing.

Andy stood there in wide-eyed shock, still holding the gun, unable to comprehend what had just happened. March pulled himself up off the ground, pain shooting through his body, but he knew he had to act.

He grabbed the gun from Andy's hand. He was trembling as he pointed it at the fallen man, and cocked the trigger. His heart pounding, he clenched his eyes shut and pulled the trigger. One loud explosion, and then silence.

Andy stared at the blood that pooled beneath the dead suit, his eyes wide with horror. He wanted desperately to look away but he couldn't.

March opened his eyes, and quickly turned away from the dead body before him. He tossed the gun over the ledge and turned back toward Andy.

Andy was still just staring at the dead body of the suit in front of him, still not moving.

"Come on!" March grabbed Andy by the arm, firmly, and started dragging him. And finally Andy responded, and the two of them raced down the sidewalk, and away.

They didn't stop running until they were back in the apartment. They both collapsed against the wall, gasping for air.

"What the hell have you done, Andy?" March said, when he had finally caught his breath.

"You... you just killed someone." The look on Andy's face was pure horror.

"I didn't have a choice after you shot him!" March glared at the boy. "He was White Rabbit!"

"I didn't mean to." Andy looked at March desperately. March's face was all swollen and already starting to turn dark. "He was hurting you. He could have killed you." Andy reached over and touched the side of March's face lightly, but March slapped his hand away.

"I would have been fine. You don't mess with the White Rabbit. We've just made ourselves a huge target." March hit the wall in frustration.

"What do we do now?"

"I don't know," March admitted, his eyes looking haunted. "I've never killed anyone before."

...

That night, Andy had his first nightmare. He was grappling with the suit, fighting for the gun. And there was a resounding bang. Only this time, the hole was in his jacket, and a sea of red began to pour out.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Thanks to my reviewers! You rock! Without further ado, here's chapter 6. Chapter 7 should be up shortly.**

March stood at the front window of the scarab, watching the small wooden boat skimming across the water, a familiar tan hat at the steering wheel, and a petite brunette beside him.

If his ceramic head could show expression, it would be twisted into a sneering smirk. At least this would make the chase more interesting.

The queen had sent him to hunt some oyster broad. But, almost like an afterthought, she had added, "Oh, and while you're at it, Marchy, perhaps you could stop in at the Hatter's tea shop."

Seems the queen finally figured out he was working for the Resistance. Figures. Andy never was careful enough. And as luck would have it, the broad and the Hatter had become a singular chase.

He had seen the look of horror... or was it terror... that had flashed in his prey's eyes, just before he had turned and run. March knew that Hatter had recognized him.

"Nightmares, Hatter," he said in his mechanical voice, and chuckled.

The Ten of Clubs glanced over at the rabbit-head, and shuddered slightly.

…

"It's a long shot, it's the only one we've got."

"We?" He could feel Alice looking at him questioningly. He kept his eyes on the lake, but swallowed a bit and nodded.

"Don't know if you noticed Alice, but my shop was ransacked. I'm... homeless. I'm a target not only for the suits but for the Resistance as well, and there's only so many places in Wonderland you can hide." Images of the rabbit-head flashed in front of his eyes again, and he did his best not to cringe. If that... thing was March, then hiding in Wonderland would be rather futile anyway. His mind was still trying valiantly to deny it. "The way I see it, I've only got one option."

"Which is?"

"Go back with you, to your world." The very thought had Hatter trembling on the inside. He hoped that Alice wouldn't notice. The idea of leaving Wonderland scared him. The idea of what was chasing them scared him more. At least in her world, he'd be safe. Safe-ish.

As if on cue, a distinct buzzing sound met his ears and he and Alice both spun in their seats, to see a scarab closing in on them from the air.

"But before we do anything, we have to shake that royal flush."

…

"They're heading for the shore." Ten's voice sounded tense and wavering. He had heard the stories of what existed in the woods by the lake.

March watched intently as the small boat was steered toward the thickly overgrown shoreline. "Land this thing!" he demanded sharply. Ten swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably.

March marked the last place he saw the boat, as it disappeared into the overgrowth along the shore. Tulgey Wood. This would make things interesting.

…

"I don't know who that wierdo is, leading the posse," Hatter said as he rejoined Alice after doing his best to hide the boat.

"_Liar!" His mind screamed at him. He tried to ignore it._

"_It can't be March. March is dead!" he countered. "If it is, then this is just another nightmare!"_

But out loud he continued, "but he's got one hell of a nose for blood." Then he paused and looked into the woods. "And this is the place to find it."

As if on cue, a grunting honk sounded in the distance. A plan started to form in Hatter's mind, a mad plan, but it just might work...


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Sorry for the delay in getting the chapter up. It has been a crazy week. Hope you are enjoying the story so far. Please read and review. Reviews keep my muse happy... which means more stories.**

"_STOP!" The scream froze March's blood in his veins. Andy hadn't run away, like March had hoped the kid would. No, he had been watching as the suit landed hit after hit. And now he had a gun, and it was pointed at the White Rabbit agent._

"_Shit, kid, don't be stupid!" March yelled at him. Put the gun down and get the hell out of here, he pleaded silently. Don't shoot. March could see Andy's hands trembling, and he wasn't holding the gun properly. He had probably never held a gun before in his life._

_The six of spades saw it too, and rushed at the boy to reclaim the weapon, leaving March struggling to get up. _

"_Stop!" Andy yelled again, but his voice was shaky. He looked frantically over at March, who tried, in one last ditch attempt, to communicate to the kid, to try to stop what was about to happen. Drop the gun and back down, he wanted to scream, but no sound came._

_Then the suit came between them and grabbed at the gun. Andy was struggling, trying desperately to hang onto the weapon. March watched with growing horror. "No," he whispered._

_Then the gun went off in Andy's hand, and the suit dropped to the ground, blood seeping from his shoulder, but very much alive. He writhed on the ground, cursing, his eyes venomous as he glared at the kid._

_March scrambled to his feet, nauseating pain shooting through his body, and rushed to Andy's side. Andy was in shock, just staring blankly, the gun still in his hand. The suit was holding his shoulder and struggling to get up. When his eyes fell on March, he uttered his last words. "I'll get you for this!"_

_And March knew he had no choice. He grabbed the gun from Andy and cocked it. Then he clenched his eyes shut against what he was about to do, and pulled the trigger. The resulting bang nearly stopped his heart._

_There was a long moment of silence, then March opened his eyes._

_And recoiled in horror. Laying on the ground, his eyes wide and unseeing, blood pooling beneath him, was Andy Hatter._

March woke with a yell, practically launching himself from the bed. He looked over at the mat on the floor, but it was empty. For a moment, panic rose in his throat, before reason began to take over, and the dream began to melt away.

Andy would likely be where he spent most of his time lately, working at the tea shop in the upper city.

It had been two weeks since the death of the suit. And true to their nature, the White Rabbit had increased their presence in the lower city, searching for any clue as to the identity of the murderers, and arresting or attacking anyone they deemed suspicious. But thankfully they only had the vaguest of descriptions from the suit that had been knocked out, and so far it had not led them to March or Andy.

It had made things far more treacherous for a couple of cons on the street. So the duo spent more and more of their time in the upper city, sometimes not even returning home at night. Then Andy had met a tea-seller, and had managed to sweet talk his way into a job – collecting information and doing some light cleaning at the Tea Shop, so now much of his day was spent there, leaving March to his own devices.

But both Andy and March had been plagued with nightmares since that day. And March was growing more and more unsettled by it. This one had been the worst – the image of Andy's cold, dead eyes continued to haunt him long after he woke up.

Andy would be home in a few hours. And he would be alright. But March was feeling restless and uneasy, and he finally left the apartment to go for a walk.

…

"G'night Hatter. Good work." The tea-seller patted the young teen on his shoulder and handed him a small bag of coins, before locking the tea shop door and meandering up a narrow sidewalk and away.

Andy smiled as he counted out the coins he had earned, before hiding the sack under his hat, and turning toward the lower city. He had done well, siphoning some valuable information for the seller and the shop owner today, and they had rewarded him for it.

As he walked down to the lower levels, he contemplated what he would purchase with his new-found "wealth". Definitely some cured meat and bread, maybe even some butter and cheese and tea. The real tea. He and March could have a feast!

An hour and a half later, arms laden with parcels, he pushed open the door of the apartment and swung the packages onto the table with a flourish.

But then he hesitated, suddenly wary. March was there, laying on the bed, fully clothed with shoes still on his feet, staring at the ceiling with an empty half-smile, his eyes slightly glazed. In his hand, he held a small glass bottle, with small white lettering – PEACE.

Andy staggered back, his feast forgotten. March had never used tea. He looked over at the prone man again, his brows knit. He had heard March talk about his mother, the tea-head. He had always spoken it with such disgust and made Andy promise to never use it. And Andy's own mother had always decried the potions as poison to the soul. Using perhaps the strongest words she had ever used around her young son.

Andy clenched his fist, anger swelling in his body.

"... the hell. March!"

March's eyes cleared slightly as he looked up at a rather upset and very angry Andy.

"You're home," he stated, almost a little drowsily. "That's good."

"What did you do, March?" Andy's voice was tight.

March just shrugged his shoulders and sat up. The tea was starting to wear off, but he still couldn't quite understand what was upsetting Andy so much. The glass bottle fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. "I'm fine, kid. It was just this once."

Andy clenched his jaw and turned away. "Stuff's poison, March!"

March felt a twinge of guilt at Andy's words – he knew the kid was right. But he felt a rise of anger, and before he could stop them, the words spilled from his mouth. "This coming from a future tea-seller for the queen," in a mocking tone that he hated to hear his own voice use..

Andy wheeled around, his face red, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. March was instantly full of regret, and would have taken the hit if Andy had let fly.

But Andy just turned and ran out the apartment door, slamming it behind him. By the time March reached the door, he was nowhere to be seen.

March turned around with a sigh, his head throbbing slightly, and that was when he noticed the packages on the table. And he realized that he had just rained on Hatter's tea party.

...


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Bit of a setup chapter, but the next few should more then make up for it. Hope you enjoy. :) Thanks for the reviews.**

The pit was crudely dug, and sporadically armed with sharpened sticks. It was obvious, by the footprints, that his prey had fallen into it. And it was just as obvious by the lack of blood – at least human blood – that they had missed the spikes. There had been a bit of blood on some foliage a ways back – but it had been reptilian. Perhaps a jabberwock. They had heard the occasional honking cries of the beast since they had come ashore.

The Ten of Clubs was shifting nervously, and looking around. "Why would they come to the Forest of Wabe?" he mused out loud, then turned to Mad March. "No one has ever come out alive!" He was obviously concerned that it would be their fate as well.

March would have sneered if he had a face that moved. Instead, he gave a snort of disdain. "That's what they want you to think," he retorted. Pathetic, he thought to himself. Palace-bred city boy. Of course he would believe all the horror stories. Even if most of them had some truth to them.

"They were here a short while ago," March observed, tracing their steps on the loose earth. "Shadows, still warm." He could feel them. The girl's shadow felt a little strange, wavery, not a part of this world. The other shadow was a very familiar one. One he had tracked many many times, one who's shadow he felt stronger then any other.

Ten was staring at him, trepidation and questions in his eyes. "Shadows?" He gave an involuntary shudder.

...

Once the last of the tea's euphoria had completely worn off, the guilt and the self-loathing set in, in earnest. In that moment of weakness, he had been like his mother, turning to tea – artificial senses of well-being. And Andy had been unfortunate enough to witness the fall of March Hare.

He felt completely disgusted with himself. "Weak bastard," he growled when he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. But even as he said it, he could feel the longing to return to that blissful state of uncaring that he had been experiencing moments earlier.

But he wouldn't let Andy see him like that again.

Andy, he needed to go find Andy. To apologize. To bring him back. He'd make it up to him somehow.

Andy's shadow had started to cool, but it was still there, an invisible marker showing March where he had been. He hadn't lingered by the door. He had headed west, along the narrow walkway, and around the nearest corner.

March could feel his shadow more strongly there. He must have lingered there for a few moments. But he was still long gone from this spot, and the deepest dark of nightfall wasn't far away.

The Hares had always had an uncanny ability that made them excellent trackers. Perhaps it was a trace of old Wonderland that still existed, far stronger in the Hare family line then almost any other in all of Wonderland. They could feel shadows, sense where people had been and how long it had been since they had been there. The shadows were stronger the longer the person stayed in one spot, fleeting if the person had just passed through. The shadows grew cold in less then an hour, disappeared altogether shortly after that. If the shadow was still warm, it meant that the people being tracked were not far ahead.

Andy's shadow lead him, at first, up two levels, then back in an easterly direction. He had obviously paused again, at the top of the stairs – the shadow was stronger here. He was catching up, but still did not know how much longer he would be chasing the boy, how much further ahead Andy might still be.

…

Andy slumped against the wall, and craned his neck all the way up, to see the last bit of light fading from the sky, so many levels up from where he stood. One day, he promised himself, he would travel all the way to the very highest level of the city, and spend the night there. But right now, he was in the deepest, darkest part of the city, and night was upon him. He shivered and curled up against the wall, flashbacks of his first night on the city streets playing in his head.

He was still angry at March. Yes, he helped a tea-seller, and was starting to learn the trade, but he never drank the tea. He had been tempted once – one of the sellers had offered him a sip of Bliss, but he had turned it down – at the time stating that he preferred the wilder emotions. The man had just laughed and downed the bottle himself, fallen into a bit of a stupor and wandered off.

But as the deepest dark fell, he wished he was back at home, tea-soaked March or no.

…

Down yet another flight of stairs. March was genuinely concerned now. Why on earth would Andy go to the lowest level of the city? Almost no one went there – the buildings were all decrepit and falling apart, and the people who lived on that level weren't much better. Madness and senility. The lowest level seemed reserved for those that were not right at all.

March cursed to himself, but followed Andy's trail. He knew he was almost there. The shadows were much warmer now.

Still, with only shadows and no light to go by, he found Andy by tripping over him. He was curled up against a wall, half shielded by the stairway March had just come down.

"Leave me alone!" Andy's voice was tense and a little frightened.

"Andy, it's me." March kept his voice only a little above a whisper. He put his hand on the younger's shoulder.

But Andy recoiled, angrily, his fear forgotten now that March was with him, but his anger still burning.

March sat down, heavily, beside his friend. "I'm sorry," he offered. It was short but it was genuine. He didn't feel the need to say anything else.

There was a long silence, where neither spoke. And it only grew longer. March was about to talk again, to say anything, just to break the silence, when Andy spoke.

"Let's go home."

…


	9. Chapter 9

March watched Andy sleep for a long while, blaming himself. He felt like he had betrayed his only friend. But he knew, Andy was far more then a friend to him. Long ago, Andy had turned into family. Someone he loved. A brother. Someone he would always try to protect.

"Never touch tea again," he told himself, angry tears burning the backs of his eyes. Then he settled down in the bed, and tried not to think about the PEACE, how good it had felt to let his guard down, to feel like there was no danger and no fear. He cringed and tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere, but the more he tried to distract his mind, the more it rebelled and thought about emotion tea.

It haunted him through the night, and by morning, "never touch tea again" had turned into "never let Andy see me touch tea again."

Andy left extra early that morning. March pretended to be asleep – he didn't want Andy to know he had been awake all night, watching over him.

And once he was gone, March started making preparations.

…

He had lost their trail. Somehow, after the pit, everything had just disappeared. Tracks, prints, shadows. He was certain that the jabberwock had not killed them – there had been no sign of carnage whatsoever, and jabberwocks were not tidy. The Ten of Clubs had preposterously suggested that it might have swallowed them whole, but March knew that even jabberwocks weren't that big.

No, he was certain that someone had helped them, though he found no trace of anyone else. There was no other explanation. Hatter didn't have the ability to hide himself so thoroughly – not from March. Sure he knew how to avoid being seen and he knew how to run and hide, but March could always find him, one way or another. The cat was far superior to the mouse at that game.

So to have completely and utterly lost him now infuriated March. As did the endless prattle falling from the palace-bred city boy that had been sent to accompany him on his search. The other suits knew to stay quiet, to let him think. The Ten of Clubs never shut up. If only he were allowed to... No, that was not the task at hand.

Finally, with a scathing glance in Ten's direction, that even Ten would have caught had March's head not been made of emotionless ceramic, he pulled himself, with amazing dexterity, up a tall pine tree. The suits all stared after him in surprise, unsure of how he had done that. The tree had few to no lower branches.

He balanced himself on a high branch, clear of the tops of many of the trees. He scanned the area, looking for any sign of the travelers, any disturbance in the woods. Again, nothing. But wait...

In the distance, standing like a haunted guard, were broken and battered... chess pieces?

The Kingdom of the Knights?

…

**AN: Sorry, painfully short chapter, I know. But I had to end it here... the next chapter demanded it.**

**And I apologize for the longer update times. My muse is being rebellious, and preferring the world of Primeval to the world of Alice at the moment. But I haven't abandoned my Alice stories. I promise.**

**(BTW, if any of you are Primeval fans... I now have a new Primeval fic – Saying Goodbye – dealing with the aftermath of Series 1 epi 4... if you're interested).**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! Much love!**


	10. Chapter 10

He had been late coming back down from the Tea Shop, and March had begun to wonder if he was coming back at all. They had barely spoken since March had found Andy at the bottom of the city, but March was determined to change that. After all, they were Hare and Hatter! The grandson and great-nephew of the once-famous duo.

And it was time to be legends in their own right.

March had spent the day unpacking the provisions that Andy had brought home the night before – tea and cured meat and cheese, and butter – and had run out a few times to collect some provisions of his own – mainly tea pots and cups and at one point, a bag of sugar and some scones.

When a weary-looking Andy finally did push the door open, March was practically beside himself. Andy's eyes grew wide as he stared at the long table.

Every inch of the table was covered in dishes. There were six steaming teapots, and plates of bread and cheese and meat, and every inch not covered by those was full of teacups.

"_We had the maddest tea parties. They lasted all day and sometimes all night too. And we would tell riddles and speak nonsense..." _Of all the stories that he remembered his great-uncle telling, the story of the tea parties, of meeting and aiding the Alice of Legend... they had been his favorite. They had been the ones that stuck in his mind, long after Uncle Madigan was gone.

March was practically quivering in his chair beside the table. He had been quite taken over by the excitement of the re-creation, and seeing the look of absolute awe that crossed Andy's face made everything worthwhile.

"Welcome, Hatter, to our tea party!" He made a grand sweep of his arm, and accidentally knocked a tea cup. It fell to the floor in a hundred pieces.

Andy's face split into a wide, dimpled grin, any trace of old anger forgotten. With a laugh, he grasped his hat, and threw it across the room. It swung neatly onto the back of a chair, and he quickly followed it.

Tea time lasted long into the night, with the two laughing incessantly, drinking cup after cup of tea, and eating all manner of food. More then a few tea cups ended up shattered, some accidentally knocked, others carelessly tossed once emptied.

"Where's Alice?" Andy asked at length.

March quirked a brow at him. "Alice?"

"Uncle Mad – he always talked about tea-time with Alice." Hatter swiped a wide swath of butter across a scone and bit into it with a look of bliss.

March's eyes widened in mock-horror. "What shall we do? We have no Alice."

They were both silent for a long moment, then they erupted into laughter once again. Finally March grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and set it up against a chair. "She'll have to do, I suppose," he stated with a grin. Andy guffawed into his sleeve and accidentally dislodged another tea cup.

As the night got older, the banter got sillier. Then Hatter turned to the Hare and, in mock seriousness, asked, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

March found himself chuckling, as he wracked his mind to come up with the answer. But no answer was forthcoming, although they both posited theories for the better part of an hour. But ultimately, as it had for their predecessors, it remained the riddle with no answer.

And so, as night started to give way to morning, March leaned back in his chair, raised a cup of tea in a toast, and stated, "Twinkle, twinkle little bat. How I wonder what you're at!"

Andy joined in with gusto. "Up above the world you fly, like a tea-tray in the sky."

They downed the last of the tea, and at long last found their beds. It would be well past noon before either would stir again.

…

"_Twinkle twinkle, little bat," the icy, mechanical voice singsonged. A sharp knife glinted in his hand. "Good-bye Hatter."_

…

It was the memory of their very own Mad Tea Party that kept softening Hatter's heart, even years later as he was recovering from a gunshot wound and a rather large and deep cut that stretched from his shoulder almost to his navel, courtesy Mad March. Maybe it was a combination of blood loss and pain medicine, but he could almost hear the laughter and the clattering of tea cups again.

…

It was the beginning of the end of the good times.

Perhaps the last time Hatter remembered their friendship being truly happy. But a memory he would cling to.

Only two days after their very own mad tea party, March didn't come home at night. Andy had gone out to search for him, but lacking March's tracking skills, was unable to find him. The night after that, March was there, but Andy could tell that something wasn't right.

Andy tried desperately to ignore the changes in March – the frequent absences, the moods, the glazed stares – but silently it tore at his heart. He wasn't stupid. He knew March was turning into a tea-head.

Less then a month after his first dose, "never let Andy see me touch tea again" had turned to "never let Andy see me with tea... in our house." And for a while, that was good enough.

Andy spent longer and longer days up at the Tea Shop. He still ran errands for the tea-sellers, and spied on people, collecting information that could prove valuable, but now he was starting to be trained on the basics of the tea market. Even as young as he was, he was a quick learner, and was proving to be a valuable asset to the tea shop. And it wasn't going unnoticed. As his skills grew, so did the responsibilities that the sellers heaped on him, and with that the profits.

However, the profits were less and less often being paid out in coins. It started slowly – a small bag of coins and a dose of Excitement. He had frowned slightly, but said nothing. He ended up selling the bottle to a tea-head in the lower city for far less then it was worth, but was glad to be rid of it. But then the next time, there had been only a few coins and several doses of tea. Lust, Exhilaration, Bliss.

Andy cringed inwardly as he once again took the bottles and sold them on the street. He knew what they were worth in the Tea Shop, and he always sold them for a little less, and tried not to acknowledge the small wave of guilt as he looked into the hollow eyes of the buyers as he gave them their poison.

Soon, tea was all he was being paid. It didn't surprise him. More and more, tea was becoming its own currency in Wonderland. If you had the right emotion, you could purchase almost anything with it. And soon Andy simply began trading the tea for what he needed, rather then selling it for coins.

He never mentioned it to March. It was the first secret he had ever kept from his best friend. He felt guilty about it, but he knew he could never tell.

…

Andy slipped into the apartment quietly, trying to keep the bottles of tea from clinking in the bag he had slung over his shoulder. It had been a long day, and he was exhausted, so he hadn't taken the time to trade the tea away before he came home.

He could see March, seemingly asleep, on the bed. He breathed a sigh of relief and sank down onto his mat. The tea bottles clinked slightly as he did so, and he cringed, his eyes tight shut. But after a long moment with no movement from the bed above him, he opened his eyes. He gently pushed the bag as far under the bed as he could reach, before curling up to sleep. First thing in the morning, he would get rid of them.

It was still the deep dark of night when he came awake suddenly, to giddy laughter coming from the bed above him. A candle, lit beside the bed, created menacing looking shadows on the wall, and that combined with the strange laughter nearly froze Andy for a moment.

Then he heard a sound – a sound that had him leaping to his feet in an instant. The sound of a glass bottle breaking on the floor beside him.

March was sitting on the bed, the bottles of tea that Andy had hid carefully under the bed lined up before him. He was holding a half-empty bottle of Excitement, and the bottle of Bliss was already missing – undoubtedly the broken glass on the floor.

He managed to look a tad guilty when he saw Andy standing in front of him, pale and trembling, his fists clenching and unclenching silently. Then he laughed again, sounding even more insane, and held the rest of the Excitement out to Andy.

"Have some tea, Hatter!" he said, thrusting it further toward the boy in front of him.

Andy felt rage and nausea overtake him simultaneously. "Those are mine!" he almost shrieked, barely recognizing his own voice. Then he did the last thing he ever thought he would ever do. He balled up his right hand and let fly, hitting March square in the left eye.

March toppled backwards, nearly upsetting the remaining tea bottles onto the floor. There was a moment of stunned silence, then he heard March start to curse as the pain brought him sharply out of his stupor for a moment. Suddenly afraid, Andy grabbed his bag and thrust the remaining bottles of tea into it and fled.

…

**AN: Sorry for the long delay... been trying to write this chapter for days.**

**Hopefully it isn't too disjointed. Please read and review. Constructive criticism very welcome.**


	11. Chapter 11

He saw the sunrise from the very top of the city. He had spent what had remained of the night getting as far from home as possible, climbing stairway after stairway and making his way along sidewalks and bridges that were far too perilous to traverse in the dark, yet he had.

At first he didn't know where he was going. At first he didn't care. He felt scared and angry and frustrated and more than a bit guilty. He should never have brought the tea home. But after seeming hours of walking, he started to see more of the sky, and thought again about traveling to the top of the city.

And so by the earliest morning, Hatter had reached the very top, and the clarity of the sky, the vivid colors of the sunrise, nearly took his breath away.

He leaned against a chimney, a small sigh of contentment escaping his lips in spite of everything. Exhaustion started to take hold of him, and in spite of the very bright sunlight that was now bathing the rooftop on which he sat, he soon felt himself starting to drift.

…

March's head was pounding, and his eye was almost swelled shut. As poor of a fighter as Andy was, he could sure throw a solid punch when provoked.

And he had been provoked.

March fought back against a wave of bitter guilt that washed over him. Andy had run away from him again. And it was his fault. It was the fault of the Tea.

Tea. The slightest thought brought with it an overwhelming need for the absolution that could be found in the bottom of a bottle of Peace or Bliss.

He could barely sense Andy's fleeting shadow by the door as he made his way out to find his next fix.

…

The rooftops and the heights became Hatter's new home. Still bearing a little fear of March, and dreading finding his best friend in a tea-soaked state, he divided most of his time between the Tea Shop and the rooftop.

But every few days, he made his way, carefully, back to the lower city, creeping back into his old home and leaving small packages – bread, cured meats, fruit – for March, before disappearing back into the Upper City. He never saw March, and many nights, as he stared at the sky, he would find himself in tears thinking about him.

…

March never spent another night in the home he and Andy had shared. He tried, but he found that he couldn't. No matter how much tea he drank, the apartment always felt too empty, and the guilt would come back, fighting its way through his stupor.

He still came back, every day, checking to see if Andy had returned. Sometimes he could feel Andy's shadow, and it would fill him with hope for a moment, and he would run through the door to find an empty house. But there would be food, left for him, a sign that Andy still cared.

And today it was there again. Cheese and bread, but no Andy. March managed a few bites, swallowed down past the lump in his throat.

…

_The door of the Truth Room flew open with such force that it nearly came off its hinges, and Mad March stormed through it, positively raging. He barely noticed the house, and that the room through the sliding doors had no floor._

_He could feel him. His shadow was strong; it was all over the place. Alice hadn't escaped. She had been rescued..._

_Rescued by Hatter!_

_Mad March absently fingered the blade of his knife as he twirled it in his fingers. He would find them. And when he did..._

…

Hatter hurried through the front door into the Tea Shop, and immediately caught the eye of the seller. As usual the Tea Shop floor was a mass of people, yelling and bartering. He motioned with his head toward the back corner, and he moved to meet the seller there.

He had information. Information that might prove valuable, and earn him a few extra bottles today.

But he never reached the corner.

The front door flew open with a bang, and the last person he ever wanted to see darkening the door of the Tea Shop was exactly the figure who's frame was silhouetted in the daylight.

March scanned the room, frantic, and didn't immediately see Hatter, who had dropped behind a table when he had realized who it was.

"Hatter!" March's voice sounded a little crazed. "Hatter!"

Hatter started shaking slightly. March had never come to the Tea Shop while he had been working before, and right now March looked more than a little out of his mind.

March staggered a few steps further into the room. People were backing away from him, and the selling floor had gone rather quiet.

"Hatter!" March yelled one more time. Then he dropped to his knees. "Andy." It came out as a soft plea.

He was enough out of the light of the doorway for Hatter to see him well now. March's eyes looked haunted and desperate; his face was very pale. And then Hatter suddenly realized why everyone was staring at him.

March's shirt was covered, in no small amount, with blood.

…

**AN: Sorry for the long wait and the short chapter. I have been struggling with writer's block really badly for the last week or more. I will try to be faster with my posting, but I think my brain will remain fairly fried until inventory is over at work.**

**Please review. Let me know what you think! Much love!**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: I dedicate this chapter to Brumeier, who's been dropping hints that a story update was well overdue... thanks for the prodding.**

**If anyone is interested, she has a great little fic going, called "Love, Hatter", which is based on postcards. Great read. Check it out.**

**I do apologize to all my readers for my slower updates. I am fighting with both of my serial stories at the moment...  
**

**Okay, on to the story now... again sorry for the long delay. Enjoy.  
**

He stayed behind the table far longer then he intended. The room was deathly silent now, no small feat for a place where one usually had to yell to be heard. March was on his knees, staring at a blank spot on the tea shop floor. For a moment, everything had frozen.

"March." The name broke across Andy's lips, as concern and fear for his friend short-circuited any other thought. He was at March's side in seconds, dragging the larger man to his feet, pulling him out the door and away from the tea shop. March was heavy, and at the moment wasn't lending much help, just mumbling Andy's name over and over.

Finally Andy dropped him against a broken wall in an empty building, momentarily collapsing against it himself. The sight and smell of the blood made him feel nauseous, but ultimately his concern won out.

"... the hell, March!" Andy's face was creased with concern as he tore open March's shirt.

March remained slumped against the wall, pale and wide-eyed, but laughing – a hideous, strange, mirthless sound, staggered between gasps of air.

"The blood ain't mine," March managed finally. He chuckled one more time, then his breath caught and came out as a hiss as the shirt pulled free from a gunshot wound in his shoulder.

Andy's eyes went wild.

"Okay, most of the blood ain't mine," March amended. His mind was slowly starting to clear, to calm, even though his body was still reeling in shock.

"What 'appened?" Andy's voice was thick with fear.

"A fight." March's eyes went dark, his face twisting slightly. "There were two of them." He paused for a long moment. "Suits."

He had just managed to lift a couple of bottles, conned them from another tea-head. Exhilaration and Lust. He had barely noticed the suit that was following him. Not until he was joined by another and they had March cornered. Their sites were set on the Tea.

He had taken the first round of hits without fighting back, but then it had changed. Something inside him snapped, broken like the bottle of Lust on the ground.

The feel of their blood had been intoxicating, but had sent his mind spiraling.

"They're dead," March finished off. He tried to avoid looking at Andy. He didn't want to see the stricken look that had taken over his face, or the way he was backing away.

Dead. Andy felt the bile rise in his throat.

…

_The gun went off. The bullet hit the man's suit jacket, tearing a hole through it. And dark red began to ooze through the hole. The man dropped to the ground, writhing and swearing. _

_He stood there, in wide-eyed shock, still holding the gun, as March pulled himself up off the ground. March grabbed the gun from Andy's hand, pointed it at the fallen man and pulled the trigger._

_The explosion had been deafening. Andy stared in horror at the growing pool of red. Blood. So much blood. He wanted desperately to look away but he couldn't._

_Until March grabbed his arm, and pulled him away. And they were running, running until they reached the apartment, and collapsed, gasping for air._

"_You... you just killed someone." Shock. Horror. Fear. "What do we do now?"_

"_I don't know. I've never killed anyone before."_

…

Dead.

"What have you done?" Andy's voice was barely a whisper. March had killed two more people. Two more suits. March had killed two more suits and then come to the Tea Shop. Covered in blood. He had been seen by everyone there. And everyone had seen Hatter helping him away.

Images of his mother being dragged away, taken by suits, swirled to the front of his mind, and he collapsed against the wall and buried his face in his hands.

…

It was fifty-seven levels from the Tea Shop to the apartment, and March was in no condition to run. Andy knew that he wouldn't feel safe until they were back there and had changed the door again.

Andy had given his jacket to March. It was a tight fit, but at least it hid most of the blood. The wind tore through his thin silk shirt, and he shivered uncontrollably, but it was only partly due to the cold.

March focused on the sidewalk in front of him, and tried not to look at Andy. He swallowed hard around the guilt that rose in his throat to choke him. He hadn't been thinking straight. He had gone to Andy's Tea Shop. He had dragged Andy into his mess, and now they would both be a target. The White Rabbit would already be looking for him. And he knew that they would eventually find him. And he only hoped that he could somehow save Andy.

They had made it down thirty-six levels when they saw it. The large, droning, metal scarab. It was hovering over the lower streets, its spotlights illuminating the byways below it. They flattened themselves against the wall, as the scarab passed them by.

March cursed as he looked over the edge of the sidewalk at the levels below. Suits. Lots of them. And further down he could see another scarab. It looked like White Rabbit had called out their entire army. There was no way they could make it back to their apartment, not without being noticed.

Save Andy. This is your mess. Your fault.

March clenched his eyes shut for a long moment, then turned and faced Andy Hatter. His only friend. His family.

Andy knew what was coming. He could see it in March's eyes. And his heart started to crumble as he shook his head, no.

"Andy, listen to me. You have to get out of here. You have to get away and hide. Run like hell." March stared intently into Andy's face.

"No!" Andy cried out. "Hatters and Hares, remember?"

"Not this time." Tears were burning the back of March's eyes. They were already spilling from Andy's. "Sorry Andy. I didn't mean..." His voice failed him, and for one quick moment he reached out and pulled Andy into a crushing hug, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Then he pushed the boy away, as hard as he could. "Now get the hell outta here!"

He didn't look back. He couldn't look back.

"Goodbye Hatter."

…

He wasn't sure what kept him going down. The levels below were swarming with suits. If he went up, he knew he might be able to hide, at least for a while. But Andy would go up, at least he hoped. And if Andy went up, he had to go down.

It was the only logic he had left.

But he wouldn't give up without a fight. He pulled out the blade, its hilt still stained with blood. He held it at the ready, even as he shrank into another doorway as the scarab passed over him. It kept going, its lights combing the streets below.

He made it down four more levels before they confronted him. Even with Andy's jacket, the blood was still visible on his shirt. There were four of them, flanking him within seconds, and several others rushed to join them.

The scarab circled back, its light catching him straight in the eyes and making it hard to see. He slashed out with his knife, catching one suit across the arm. He howled in pain, and dropped back, but the others were on him in a moment.

He had thought that they would shoot him. He figured he'd be riddled with bullet holes and left as an example. But instead of bullets, he felt fists and feet connecting with his body. At one point, his knife was wrenched free and sent skittering over the ledge to fall to the levels below.

Blackness was starting to crowd his vision, even in the bright light of the scarab's spotlight. His ears were ringing, his arms not responding. A few more seconds and he would be mercifully unconscious.

But then he heard a sound that froze his blood. A cry. A muffled shriek of rage.

Andy!

…

"Goodbye Hatter."

The words had barely been audible, choked out as March was walking away.

Andy stood there, in stunned silence, for a long moment, watching his friend's retreating back. He was reeling with how fast their lives had unraveled.

There had always been danger. There had always been some fear. But they had made a life for themselves – Hare and Hatter. And it had been a good life.

But then he had tried to swindle the wrong man, and March had been forced to kill. Then Tea became a part of their lives...

And now March had killed again, and made them both into fugitives. And March was walking away. Maybe forever.

Andy choked on a sob, feeling utterly alone and not knowing what to do.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He followed March.

He kept his distance, and kept himself well hidden. March wasn't looking for him, otherwise he would have easily sensed the younger boy's presence. He followed him down four levels, barely daring to hope that they could make it all the way home.

Andy had to dart into a broken building to avoid the bright beam of the scarab's spotlight, and when he emerged, he was alone on the street. He panicked. Where was March?

Then he heard a yell, and the starts of a scuffle, coming from around a corner ahead. He crept forward, staying in the shadows and watching for a scarab.

March was surrounded. There were suits everywhere. The scarab was turning, coming to hover above him, the light casting the fight in horrifying shadows on the wall. Andy clung to the darkness, trembling as he watched hit after hit raining down on his friend. March's knife came free, clattering over the edge of the walk, and March dropped to his knees.

Another fist hit March's face. And something broke in Andy.

An unearthly shriek ripped out of his chest, and he launched himself forward. He knocked over two suits, one barely avoiding plummeting to his death, as he charged toward March, his fists swinging.

But he never landed a punch. He felt himself being grabbed firmly from behind. Then something hard struck him in the back of the head, and he was thrown into blackness.

…

**AN: … please read and review! I love reviews. As always, constructive criticism more then welcome.**


	13. Chapter 13

The first thing he felt was a sharp, pounding, throbbing pain in the back of his head. Then came the waves of nausea, rolling through his stomach, keeping time with the throbbing pain. Then came the sound of creaking, and the feeling like he was swaying back and forth. Seasickness added to his nausea, and this time he did empty his stomach, choking on the remnants.

Andy forced his eyes to open, but it didn't seem to matter. Wherever he was, it was dark. He tried to move, but quickly changed his mind as his stomach lurched harshly once again.

Where was he? What had happened? He struggled to clear his head. He reached his hand up and touched the painful pulse at the back of his head. A large raised welt met his fingers, sticky with blood. And it all came flooding back. March. The murders. Saying goodbye. All the suits. The fight.

Now he was captured. And March was probably dead. The last image in his mind was March's bloodied face, his prone body.

He dragged himself into the corner of his small cell and curled up into the tightest ball possible. Then the tears came, and the painful sobs tore his chest apart.

…

Everywhere hurt. The worst of the pain radiated from March's shoulder, but there were nerve flairs all over his body. The pain served to clear his head, though he would have preferred that it drive him back under instead.

Every memory flooded back to him vividly. Leaving Andy – begging him to run and save himself. Being caught, beaten. And hearing Andy's shriek, seeing him launch himself at the suits. Seeing him crumple as the suit brought the butt of his gun down on the back of Andy's head. Then the fist coming at his face, driving him into deep darkness.

Why hadn't they just killed him? Why was he still alive?

He shifted slightly on the hard floor, and the bindings bit into his wrists. He was in a scarab – he could tell by the loud droning, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the legs of several suits, standing a little ways in front of him.

He scoured the cabin for Andy, but there was no sign of him. Maybe they had just left him. Maybe he was, even now, waking up with a headache, on the street.

But his own reassurances rang hollow inside him. More likely, they had simply killed him – shot him, or thrown him off the ledge.

Black despair seeped into March's heart, despair that went so far beyond tears, beyond anger. He closed his eyes and willed them to never open again.

Sadly, they opened again all too soon. He was jerked roughly to his feet by two of the largest suits he had ever seen. Another held a gun to the back of his head, as they half led, half dragged him out of the scarab, and down a long hallway.

A very posh hallway. The black and white checkered floor looked to be made of marble, and the walls were painted in black, red and white heart motif.

If his heart could have felt anything now, it would have been dread. They were going to make an example of him after all. They were taking him to the Queen of Hearts. He was to be beheaded, then. At least this would all be over soon.

They cut the ropes that bound him, though the gun never left the back of his head, and the two suits each took one arm, but there was no dragging this time. They expected him to walk. And he did. He was a condemned man, and he had accepted his fate. It was what he deserved.

The Queen of Hearts was a short, plump, ridiculous looking woman. Her hair was an unnatural bright red, as were her lips. Her eyes were almost indiscernible beneath the false lashes and heavy makeup.

But she had an air of authority about her, and it was obvious that the members of her court feared her.

"What's this?" she shrilled, angrily, as March was led in.

A man in a white suit stepped forward, nervously. His long silver hair was tied down his back in two tails, and he clung to a black walking stick. His face and body twitched under the queen's piercing gaze. Agent White.

"This is the man I was telling you of, your majesty." Agent White bowed slightly. "He is the one we believe is responsible for killing your suits."

"So it would seem," the Queen said, walking down the stairs toward March. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of his blood-soaked shirt, still visible beneath Andy's too small jacket. "How many has he killed?"

"At least two, possibly more."

The Queen's lips curved upwards, ever so slightly. March just glared darkly at her, as she approached him.

"And do you have anything to say for yourself?" She was standing in front of him now, waiting for his response. Possibly waiting for him to show fear or intimidation. But he was beyond that.

"Piss off, you cow." The words spat from his lips, to the gasps of everyone in the room. The suit holding his left arm released it for just a moment, to drive his fist hard into March's ribs. March coughed, a spattering of blood flying from his mouth. The queen stepped back rather quickly to avoid it. Her eyes were flashing angrily, but all of the sudden, they lit up.

He was expecting an "off with his head" but instead the queen gave a mirthless laugh and said, "I could use you."

She turned back toward Agent White. "I need a new assassin," she stated. "My favorite has recently found himself without a head." She turned back and looked at March, who's eyes had gone even darker, if that were possible. "He'll need some... re-educating, but I think he'll do quite nicely."

March's eyes grew wide, and he involuntarily recoiled. He watched the sinister smile on the queen's face at finally getting a reaction from him. He had been fine when he had thought he was facing his own death. But to face this instead...

"Your majesty..." Agent White was protesting, but his words died on his lips under her withering gaze. "Yes, your majesty." He gave a slight bow, and melted back into the crowd of courtiers. March was led from the room, and once he was in the hall, the suit behind him drove the butt of his gun into the back of March's head, and his world plunged to darkness once more.

**AN: The story is going to take quite a disturbing turn for the next couple of chapters (please consider yourself warned), and I may have to jump the rating to M because of it. This is also where it starts to collide with my story "Failed Experiment." If you don't want spoilers for this story, wait a chapter or two before you read that one. If you want a peek, please do read it.**

**Reviews always welcome, even longed for (and loved!). Please review! I want to know what you are thinking of the story so far. To my regular reviewers – you rock!**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: WARNING! Chapter contains very disturbing content and torture. Ratings for this story have jumped to M because of this (not due to any sexual content). Thanks for reading, but please be aware that this chapter is very dark.**

She had been preparing dinner, a stew, and it smelled wonderful. Andy's stomach was growling ravenously as he sat on the floor and tried to distract himself with his book

He didn't notice the tension in his mother's shoulders, the way she jumped at every little noise, the way she kept glancing at the door. Every time he looked up at her, she smiled down warmly at him, pushing aside any other emotion other then the love she felt for the young boy.

They had seen her today. They would have caught her, if it hadn't been for Mink. He had run at them, attacked them so she could get away. She had heard the gun shot as she had fled. She knew he had sacrificed himself for her, her son, and the Resistance.

But they had seen her. It would only be a matter of time.

Noises outside the door. A persistent buzzing and droning, getting louder. Footsteps. Voices.

They were here.

She turned from the stove, stricken. Her eyes wide. Her face white.

"Andy!" Her strained, anguished whisper immediately sent fearful chills through his body. He dropped his book and was on his feet in an instant, trembling.

"Under the bed, now. And don't come out!" Tears were pooling in her large brown eyes as she took one last look at her son, and prayed to any power that would hear her that he would escape. That the suits would only take her. And that someone would look after her little boy.

Andy obeyed, mutely, terrified. The covers nearly touched the floor, and at first he could only see his mother's feet. Then the door flew open, hitting the wall with a bang, and more feet rushed in. He heard yelling, heard his mother scream, and tears started streaming from his eyes.

His hand moved slightly, pushed the covers just enough for him to see a little more. They had her by the hair. They were dragging her out the door. She was still fighting them, and looking anywhere but at his hiding place. He smashed his arm against his mouth to stifle his sobs, barely able to breathe.

Then they were gone. She was gone. They had taken her, just like they had taken his father years earlier.

Silence. He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, afraid to move, afraid to make a sound. Choking on his sobs. Trembling. He kept waiting for them to come back, to take him too. But no one came.

The smell of burning stew finally prompted him to move. He pulled himself out from under the bed and pulled the pot from the stove, dropping it as it burned his hands. It made a hideous, loud clank as it hit the floor.

He froze, his eyes flying again to the door, hanging crookedly on its hinges and slightly ajar. He waited for the sound of returning footsteps. There was nothing.

He couldn't stay here. The suits would come back. They would take him away like they had taken his mother, and his father. And they would kill him.

Tears streamed from his eyes as he ran out into the growing night.

…

His cell had opened up – grown from a box into a full sized room. Then a door had opened, the light streaming through temporarily blinding him. Two men in white lab coats entered. They only glanced summarily at him, before one grabbed him by the hair, and started pulling him out the door. He flailed and fought, one hand grasping onto the man's wrist to ease the pressure on his scalp, the other striking out, trying to free himself.

The other man grasped his free arm and wrenched it backward, and Andy howled in pain. He barely kept his footing as he was dragged down a long white hall, and then through a doorway.

A plethora of stimuli hit his senses all at once.

The room was large and white. It was lit, too brightly, by numerous naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. His eyes watered mercilessly as he squinted against it. The room was full of all sorts of strange and ominous looking steel machines. There were people, some strapped to machines, others in white lab coats, working over them. Somewhere in the room, someone screamed in agony.

But the worst was the smell. The harsh, metallic scent of blood, combined with the heavy chemical smell of disinfectant. The air was thick with it.

He wasn't going to be beheaded. No, whatever they had planned, this was going to be far worse.

A crippling wave of nausea dropped him to his knees, and he retched and dry heaved, all his strength gone, his body weak and trembling.

The two men picked him back up and threw him forcefully onto a cold metal slab, and firmly fastened his arms with leather bindings. Someone else grabbed his legs and put them into clamps. He thrashed against his restraints, but they held firm.

Inside his mind was screaming, but his mouth wouldn't make a sound.

A tall, thin man wearing a clear plastic covering over his lab coat approached, a look of dismissive disgust on his face, and a long, empty syringe in his hand. Andy recoiled, but it was hopeless. His arm remained outstretched, and the needle painfully found its mark. He wanted to turn his face away, but all he could do was watch in horrified fascination as the syringe filled with blood – his blood. Then the scientist turned and emptied the syringe into a machine.

The dark crimson swirled up through narrow glass tubes, and into other larger containers. Andy didn't know what the machine was doing, all he knew was that was his blood.

The scientist watched the machine for a long minute, silently. Then, without turning, he stated, "He'll do. Hook him up."

His shirt was yanked open roughly, and he could hear the sound of buttons hitting the floor. Something hard and sharp pinched into the left side of his neck, then another on the right. He whimpered, his voice still not working well enough to scream. Then he felt the same pain on the insides of his elbows, then his shoulders. He clenched his eyes shut, willing this nightmare to end. But it wouldn't.

His eyes opened again, just in time to see the thin scientist standing over him with another syringe. It was filled with a murky, yellowish liquid. Andy felt his heart nearly stop, as every muscle in his body tensed and quaked.

The syringe came down, and Andy found his voice at last, screaming as it was impaled and emptied into his abdomen. It burned like fire, and the fire quickly spread through his chest and his arms and his legs.

His mind blew apart, and he lost all awareness of anything except the excruciating, burning pain.

…

Fuck. He was still alive.

His eyes opened to blinding white light, and several men leaning over him.

Being selected by the queen, to be her assassin, had saved March from death. But not from torture or pain. The White Rabbit had lost three of their men because of him, and their thirst for revenge had not been sated.

They had knocked him out again, almost as soon as they had exited the throne room. And then, they had waited for him to regain consciousness before they started removing the bullet from his shoulder. Without anesthetic.

At first, it had been manageable – barely. They had taken a scalpel and sliced the skin above where the bullet was imbedded. He gritted his teeth and cursed and hissed, but refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

But when they introduced the next tool into the intricate torture, he blanched and screwed his eyes shut, bracing himself for agony. It was made of dark metal, and shaped roughly like two spoons facing each other.

The screams of pain came, involuntarily, as the device moved inside his shoulder, digging around for the bullet. His body bucked and twitched, but it was no use. White-hot pain shot through him as the tool found its target and ripped it from his body. And then there was nothing.

March lay there, panting and trembling, his shoulder bleeding freely, the left side of his body completely numb. He heard the approach of footsteps, the clack of hard soles on the cement. Agent White stood over him, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"This is just the beginning, my friend."

March writhed against his bonds, his eyes black with hate.

Agent White turned to walk away, then looked back pointedly at one of the men. "Best stitch him up. We can't go killing the queen's favorite assassin." He smirked once more at March, before his footsteps faded away.

…

As his mind slowly pieced itself back together, Andy's first thought was of his hat. His lucky hat, the one that Uncle Madigan had made for his father. He had lost it. Somewhere between the street and where he was now, the hat had gone missing, and he didn't know how to get it back. And he clung to his knees and cried.

He was in a cement cell, full of people, curled up in the corner on the cold floor. The fire that had been racing through his veins had cooled to embers, but his body was still wracked with pain. He didn't know what they had done to him, but the markings on his arms indicated that the procedures hadn't stopped with the syringe full of fire.

Where was his hat? He tried desperately to keep his mind focused on that. He didn't want to think about what had happened to him. Or to March. What happened to March? Was he still alive? Was he being tortured too?

And above all, he didn't want to think about his mother. His mind flew involuntarily to her.

He had always believed that his mother had just been executed, beheaded for being Resistance. He thought, when they caught him, that it would be his fate too. But his reality proved far different. And the thought that she – his beautiful, loving mother – might have gone through the same only added to his agony.

He curled into an even tighter ball, and sobbed into his knees until all his strength was gone, and his body collapsed into unconsciousness.

…

**AN: Wow. That was an extremely hard chapter to write, and I promise that not all of these will be as graphic. I do hope that I gave it justice though, as it plays strongly into the rest of this story.**

**Please review. I really want to know what you think. **


	15. Chapter 15

_**AN:**_** I apologize for my long update times... I am finding these chapters to be harder to write and stay true to the story. My mind seems to be fighting going somewhere so dark.**

**Song I listened to: Kelly Clarkson, Save You. For some reason, the chorus really helped me write March.**

_I wish I could save you_

_I wish I could say to you "I'm not going nowhere"_

_I wish I could say to you_

"_It's gonna be alright." - Kelly Clarkson_

_...  
_

"Ah, he's awake!"

"He shall be a fun one to play with."

"He won't be so easily broken."

Evil chuckles.

"Ah, but he is wounded."

"That will never do."

"We will have to be patient."

"Soon enough, brother."

More evil laughter.

March glowered darkly at his newest visitors. There were two of them, identical down to the last detail. Even their voices, their inflection didn't deviate. They leaned over him, gloating as though he were some sort of prize, and chuckling to themselves.

"I'm Doctor Dee. And this is my brother..."

"Doctor Dum."

They smiled, matching sadistic smiles, and March inadvertently jerked against his bindings. The doctors chortled gleefully.

"We'll meet again."

"Soon enough."

Their laughter echoed as they walked away and March was once again alone.

It had been like this for nearly two days. March, bound to a bed by his wrists and ankles, staring at the white ceiling and the bright, naked bulbs. And being subjected to all sorts of different visitors. At first they were mostly White Rabbit agents, waking him whenever he was about to fall asleep. Then there was a scientist, who injected his wound with an orange liquid that simultaneously burned and froze him to the core. Then another scientist came, and took some blood. And then it was more suits, seemingly only there to torment him.

But this latest visit was the most chilling. There was something about the twin doctors that was different then all the other visitors. Something far more sinister. Something that promised that his suffering had only just begun.

...

When his eyes opened, he found himself in the dark. His bindings had been removed, and he seemed to be lying on a rough cot. There were others in the room – he could hear them but not see them. After two days of brilliant light, his eyes struggled to adjust to the dimness that now surrounded him.

March vaguely remembered a scientist injecting something into him, then blessed unconsciousness took him. And now, he was in some sort of concrete cell, full of people – other prisoners. He could make them out now. Some laying on cots, others curled up on the floor or walking around in a haze. A woman staggered past him, bumping his cot. He could see that she was bleeding through her shirt, and her eyes looked hollow. She staggered to a wall and slumped down, her body convulsing. No one else took notice, no one but March watched as she slowly became still.

…

He was tied down again, next to the same machine. The same thin scientist leaned over him, pulling at his eyelids and shining a light into them. He flinched away, pulling at the bonds, but once again they were unyielding. The scientist turned back toward the machine. Andy could see several syringes laying there, some full, some empty. All likely meant for him.

He whimpered slightly as a needle entered his skin and took away more of his blood. He screwed his eyes shut, knowing what was coming next. He felt it pierce his abdomen, heard himself screaming, felt the fire spreading through his body.

When it cooled to embers again, he was back in the cement cell. Only this time there was a terrible pain in his stomach. He tentatively slid his hand down and felt something on his skin. Horrified, he tore at the shirt, pulling it away. There was a short incision above his belly button, roughly stitched closed, but still bleeding.

What had they done to him?

Then the nausea came, far harder then ever before, and he collapsed on the hard cement, retching helplessly. This is it, he thought. I'm dying. But instead of fear, he just felt a numbness start to take over his mind and his body. Would death really be a bad thing?

He barely felt the arms that wrapped around him, could hardly hear the strangely familiar voice speaking words he couldn't understand. He was being lifted from the floor. Something hot and liquid splashed onto his face once, then again.

Then the numbness took over entirely.

…

March stopped watching. From time to time, the door to the cell opened, and someone was either pushed in or removed. At one point, someone had entered and removed the dead girl. March now lay on the cot, his eyes screwed shut, not asleep, but trying to dissociate himself from the nightmare that surrounded him, and wishing for the hundredth time that the queen would have just ordered him beheaded.

The door opened again, and he closed his eyes even tighter. There was a sound, of a person hitting the floor, then the metal door slammed again.

A low cry, a choked sob.

March's blood froze in his veins.

NO!

Another distressed sound, then the sound of heaving and retching.

March's eyes flew open inadvertently.

NO!

He was across the cell in an instant, his arms around the broken figure in a tattered silk shirt. Andy shivered against him, but his eyes were glazed and he didn't seem aware of March's presence.

"I've got you, Andy. Hang in there," March softly pleaded, his heart falling apart in his chest. "I've got ya. Stay with me."

He picked Andy up off the floor, despite the complaint in his shoulder. His friend flopped limply against his chest, and a wave of guilt and pain almost overwhelmed March completely. A sob tore from him, and hot tears fell down his face, splashing onto Andy as he labored back toward the cot.

He gently placed Andy on it, and lay down beside him, wrapping his arms around the younger's shoulders, and pulling him in tight.

"Why didn't you run, Andy?" he whispered, breaking even further. "This should never have happened to you. I'm... I'm sorry I did this to you."

…

Andy could vaguely hear March, calling to him, speaking to him, saying that he was sorry. "Where are you March?" he shouted, but no sound came. March's voice just kept going on and on, but so far away.

Find March, Andy told himself, but again no sound came. He moved toward March's voice, and as he did, he became aware of a pain in his stomach, and that his arms were pinned.

"March!" he yelled, and started to struggle. His arms were released almost instantly, and Andy swung them about, trying to fend off any attacker.

And then he heard March's voice again. "Andy, easy." His eyes flew open, and a sob tore from his chest as he looked into the eyes of a friend – his only friend.

"March." It came out as a whisper now. March's eyes were clear – far clearer then they had been in a very long time, but puffy and very bright, and full of pain and sadness. March didn't say anything, just pulled Andy close again.

For a long moment, both of them were silent, and March started to think that perhaps Andy had fallen asleep. But then Andy spoke, his voice low and mournful.

"I lost my lucky hat."

**AN: Please review. Constructive criticism welcome too... always looking to improve! Much love.**


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Sorry for the long wait. Doctors Dee and Dum proved a little tricky to write. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and welcome to my new readers! Please review. Constructive criticism also welcome! Cheers!**

March struggled against the thick leather straps that bound him tightly to a heavy, metal chair. He was in a large white room, and his chair and a table were the only piece of furniture. Situated above him, suspended from the ceiling, was a strange metal dome with wires running upwards from the top of it. The table had several syringes and something that looked like a long plastic tube with a pointed end laid out on it.

Then Dee and Dum, the demented twin doctors were there, cackling as they circled him like vultures. He clenched his jaw defiantly and glared at them, but that just seemed to make them all the more gleeful.

His bindings tightened further, though he hadn't seen the doctors touch them. He struggled against them as they dug into his skin and pressed against his chest so hard that he was having difficulty breathing normally.

One of the doctors, though whether it was Dee or Dum, he couldn't tell (though he didn't suppose it mattered) grabbed a syringe and emptied it into his arm. He screamed, inadvertently, as fire raced through his body, causing his muscles to spasm.

Then the metal dome descended, and he felt something akin to an electric current running through it and into his head. The walls of the room turned yellow and red, and started to swirl about. He blinked and shook his head slightly, and the walls turned back to white, but only momentarily before the red and yellow swirls reappeared again.

Dee and Dum stood before him – he could see them. They seemed to be floating against the dizzying colors. He screwed his eyes shut, but he could still see them, still see the sickening swirls.

"That'll do you no good," chuckled the one doctor. March decided he was Doctor Dee, though really he couldn't tell and it didn't matter.

"You can't shut us out," Doctor Dum added.

"We're in your head," they chorused, and dissolved into evil sounding chuckles as March struggled again against his bonds.

"We get to take everything apart, and rearrange it," Doctor Dee said, a little too gleefully.

"Until you're just what the queen wants," Doctor Dum continued.

Rage flooded March at the mention of the queen. The queen, who was behind almost every evil to befall Wonderland. The queen that had killed so many people. The queen, who should have killed him, but instead was bent on twisting him into her puppet.

The walls responded, beginning to ooze black, large gooey drops that covered the swirling colors. Then he felt a searing electrical jolt that coursed through his entire body, causing him to spasm and yell involuntarily. After a long moment, it ceased, leaving his body feeling drained. The black was gone from the walls, and the red and yellow swirls were back.

The Doctors were intermittently cackling and tsking at him. Then they bled into the walls, and the wall turned into one large swirl... and then into a narrow Wonderland ledge.

And he could see himself, only it was not really him – he was still tied to the chair, he could feel the bindings. But he was watching a sinister incarnation of himself, loose of all bindings, a gun in one hand, a knife in the other.

The sinister March approached his target, an elderly man. March watched helplessly as he pinned the man to the wall, and drew his knife across the man's neck, allowing the blood to flow over his hand, while a sick smile spread across his face.

March screwed his eyes shut again, but it didn't stop. They were truly in his head, and he was being forced to watch himself kill.

Then his horror intensified, bringing with it extreme nausea as he watched his sinister reflection begin to lick the blood off of his fingers, a look of rapture on his face.

March was sweating and struggling against his bonds, as the evil March turned toward him, hands still covered in gore, and thrust his hand onto March's face, smearing blood into his skin, and forcing his fingers into March's mouth.

March retched helplessly as he tasted the bitter, metallic bite of blood on his tongue, and when the fingers were removed, emptied what little contents his stomach possessed into his lap.

The evil March swirled away, blood and all, and another scene began to take its place. This time, it was a gaudy red, black and white room. And there she was, the evil bloody Queen of Hearts. Again, rage flooded his mind and body, and as it did, another searing electrical jolt overtook his body, leaving him shaking helplessly in his chair.

He could hear the doctors cackling, as a second jolt tore through him. Then he was back on the ledge, facing down his sinister doppleganger again.

…

They hadn't come for him today. Given him a day to recover from... whatever it was they had done to him. Andy's stomach still hurt where they had cut him, and he was terrified to think about what they might have put into him or taken out of him. He had no memory of it – once they injected him with fire, everything else ceased to exist until the fire went out.

And he had dreamed about March last night. March had been there, holding him, keeping his mind from blowing away like autumn leaves. When he had woken up to find March not there, the despair had set in again.

He picked at the bread that was supplied to him and the few other prisoners that remained in the cell that day, and was surprised when he was able to hold it down. Then he had returned to the cot and curled up again.

His mind fixated once again on his hat. It had somehow become Andy's safety, the protector of his sanity. Thinking about his hat, wondering what had happened to it, kept him from going mad as the hours passed, and other prisoners were brought back in, looking vacant and horrible, some of them bleeding, some of them barely able to walk or stand.

Andy had shut himself away from the horror around him so tightly that he didn't notice a lone figure that staggered through the door and practically crawled over to him, until he felt the cot sag beside him.

He turned sharply, and nearly fell off the cot at what he saw.

March was there. It hadn't been a dream. March had really been there with him last night. But his relief, his momentary elation quickly came crashing down, replaced by a dark emotion he could not name.

Something was very wrong. March didn't look right. His eyes were glassy and wild, and his body was spasming and trembling. Andy felt tears burn the back of his eyes. No amount of thinking about his hat could erase the image of a tortured March from his mind.

…

March had been forced to watch, as an evil version of him, conjured from his mind by the twisted twins, had killed – over and over and over. Intermittently, he was before the queen, and whenever the rage took over, the doctors would electrocute him again.

As the hours went on, March's mind began to fight against the rage, fight against the revulsion, and when he did, the doctors would instead inject him with something else. Some sort of drug, maybe even tea. It felt good, sending brief waves of euphoria through his tortured body.

As the session had ended, and the metal helmet retreated back toward the ceiling, the doctors had injected him one last time, with a substance that burned through his veins and clawed at his mind. He barely noticed he was being half-dragged down a hallway, then thrown through a doorway. He faintly heard a metallic clang behind him as he staggered forward.

He could see his salvation – Andy was seemingly asleep on the cot, very much as he had left him that morning. He would almost swear that he saw a soft golden light coming off the boy. He needed to reach him. If he could reach Andy, they would both be alright.

Andy was facing him now, only he could see horror in Andy's eyes. Andy was saying something, calling his name perhaps, but March could barely hear him. He struggled to focus his mind, but his mind rebelled against him.

He reached out, and grabbed Andy, tightly. He felt Andy struggling a bit, his eyes going a bit wild, but then Andy's body relaxed and he returned the hug fiercely. And March's mind collapsed into blackness.

…


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Apologies for the long delay on this... I am finding this story a bit hard to write at present. Thanks to all who are reading this story, special thanks to those who are reviewing. It makes my day! I can't promise anything, but I will try to have updates a bit more frequently. Cheers!**

...

March had spent most of his morning session with the doctors with electricity coursing through his body. Apparently the watching was over. Today he was expected to be the sinister doppleganger himself.

Resisted. Extreme pain, the sizzle of electricity. The knife, back in his hand, an old man standing in front of him, looking terrified. The doctor's evil, gleeful cackles behind him.

He would kill the doctors if he had the chance, but he knew they were just images in his mind, that he wouldn't stand a chance of killing the real ones. As the thought crossed his mind, another electric jolt surged through his body, causing him to spasm helplessly. Dee or Dum chortled. "None of that, now."

"Kill your target," the other admonished.

He stared once again at the target, the old man before him. He's in my mind too, March told himself silently. He isn't real. Can't kill something that isn't real.

His hand reached out and grabbed the old man's head, jerked it back. His other hand bore the knife to his throat and drew it across.

Instantly his hand flooded with warm moisture, and March dropped the knife and staggered back, reeling and horrified. That had been too real, felt too real, smelled too real to be just in his head.

Yet at the same moment, an absolutely delicious feeling flooded his body, and somehow he knew it was not entirely the drug that the doctors had injected him with. He had felt it when he had killed the suits on the street too. It was amplified here, though he still had enough capacity to know it was the doctors, the drugs.

The scene changed, and brought him a new victim, a woman in tattered clothing. The knife appeared again in his hand.

He had to resist this. The blood of the old man was still visible on his knife and on his hand. The woman was crying, staring at him in terror. He threw down the knife and screamed at her to run. Then another sizzling jolt coursed through his body, increasing his agony. He yelled and resisted. Another jolt. He cursed the doctors and the queen. Another jolt.

Eventually the woman's dead body was on the ground before him, her blood joining the old man's on his hand. And he fell to his knees in despair, even as another flood of pleasure took his body, and eventually his mind.

…

There would be no reprieve today. Andy knew it the moment the door opened, and two guards entered, scanning the room for him. He curled up as tightly as he could on the cot, but within moments he was being dragged, by his hair and by his clothes, out of the cell and down a too-brightly lit hallway. His mind was fraying, even before they strapped him to the metal table again.

The first syringe came, taking some of his blood away from him. It still caused him to tremble in horror every time they did it. It was his blood that he watched swirling through the machines, a part of him that they took away from him every time. Like they were taking him piece by piece.

He knew what was coming next, braced himself for the fire. He could never watch this syringe strike. He always screwed his eyes shut at the last moment. He felt it enter his abdomen, and the fire blaze through his body. Distantly he could hear himself scream.

But this time, instead of the burning, mindless darkness, he found himself on a steep ledge in Wonderland, the wind whipping past him so he had to stagger against the building to keep from being knocked over. He looked around, shocked and uncertain, as his mind tried to wrap around the sudden change.

And then he noticed that he was not alone. March was there, only he didn't seem to see him. He was holding a man in a bowler hat, his face contorted, a bloodied knife in his hand. There was liberal gore splattered all over his clothes, especially over his right hand. And as Andy watched in horror, March took the knife and drove it into the man's chest and twisted it. The lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Andy screamed. And March looked up.

…

March staggered back, horrified at the sight of Andy on the ledge with him. It was Andy, only Andy the way he was when March had first found him – scrawny, skinny and eleven years old. And Andy was staring at him with wide, scared eyes.

No... not here, not now. "Run kid!" March hollered. "Get the hell out of here!" He tried to banish Andy from his mind, but Andy's image didn't fade. "Dammit, RUN!"

Then everything froze, and March could hear the horrid cackling of the doctors, as they appeared before him.

"Who's this now I wonder?" Doctor Dee questioned, walking a circle around Andy's frozen form. "It seems our assassin has a friend."

"So it does," cackled Dum. "But can this friend be killed?"

March lunged at the Doctors, but they dissolved, leaving only their cackling laughter behind. Andy came unfrozen, still staring in shock at the bloodied March. The knife reappeared in March's hand, the blood on the blade and handle still sticky from his other "kills".

For a long moment, March just stared at the young Hatter staring back at him. Then he looked at the knife, and rage boiled inside him and he threw it to the ground.

Instantly a white-hot electrical charge sizzled through his body, causing him to convulse. As he recovered, he saw that the blade was once again in his hand. Furiously, he threw it down again, and the electric shock began again.

It was shock after shock, yet he refused to be broken. He knew that the boy in front of him was an image that his mind conjured up, but even so he was unable to kill him, knowing it was Andy. The doctors electrocuted him within an inch of his life, and he was grateful as darkness started to take him and Andy's face finally flickered out of his mind.

…

Andy awoke, the fires turned to embers, curled up in the corner of his cell, trembling as the dream slowly faded and shivered away. "March," he whispered, looking around the cell. But his friend was not there, and the cot they had been sharing was occupied by another prisoner. He screwed his eyes shut, but quickly opened them again when the image of a blood-covered March played behind his eyelids.

…

March could hear the voices long before he could feel his body or open his eyes again. Someone was arguing. He could distinctly hear the twin tormenters, but there were other voices as well.

"... queen is getting impatient. She wants her new assassin by the end of the week."

"He's not ready yet. He hasn't been properly broken," Dee or Dum's voice complained.

"Then break him, and be quick about it. You know what happens when the queen is kept waiting."

A doctor sighed, or perhaps they both sighed. "Ho hum, very well."

"We'll need some extra leverage if he is to be... serviceable." Still a doctor.

"What sort of leverage?" another voice asked. "You already have access to the helmet and every drug and device in this place."

March's body twitched involuntarily and his eyes fluttered.

"Look, he's waking up."

"So he is."

The twin doctors leaned over March and cackled.

...


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: I know this is very overdue... sorry. This chapter went through a couple of rewrites. Thanks to all who are still reading this, thanks even more to my wonderful reviewers. Without further ado, here is the next chapter.**

**...**

"We've bent his mind."

"Twisted it about."

"But he has not been broken yet."

"We need more time."

Agent White twitched uncomfortably. Meeting with the doctors always had the effect of unnerving him. They were very good at what they did – prying information from the strongest minds, making serviceable subjects for the queen, breaking others just for their own enjoyment – and that is why they were kept around.

But the queen would not tolerate failure, on their part or his. "The queen generously gave you a week. You now have two days," Agent White snapped at them. "You know what will happen if you fail."

"Yes," chorused the doctors, looking, for a moment, decidedly melancholic.

"We need that boy."

"The boy will break him."

Agent White frowned. He had seen the image that March's mind would conjure up. A young, scrawny kid, probably from the lower streets. But his men, no matter how often they had gone out to look for the boy, had come up empty. The city was simply too large, with too many places to hide. It was beyond trying to find a needle in a haystack.

…

March's sanity was hanging by a fragile thread, and as each hour and day passed, the urge grew to take the knife and cut it away entirely.

He had been given little rest – an hour here, a half-hour there – in the last four days, and had been injected with stimulants to keep him functioning. And he had killed hundreds – men, women and children. His conscience rarely bothered him anymore. The deaths had been mostly in his head anyway – a combination of the drugs and the helmet. He didn't even balk at the image of the queen, ordering his next assassination. But as the bodies added to his tally, he found that their blood tasted different – not real. The drunken elation did not last so long or go so high, even combined with the doctor's drugs. In the end, these killings were just dreams, and he began to long for the real thing.

And his mind had still conjured up Andy every time, eleven year old Andy. The doctors would scream at him to kill the boy, and inject him with stronger and stronger drugs. They would twist his mind, until the very image of Andy revolted him, and yet he would always stop just short of plunging the knife into his friend's apparition. And the doctors would apply the electric shock.

This time, after a brief reprieve, he wasn't taken back to the white room and the helmet. Instead, he was taken into a courtyard. When the first man's blood flowed over his hand, when he tasted the metallic tang in his mouth, the final thread began to fray.

His mind was reeling. It was chaos, but it was amazing – a high that tea could never give him. And he instantly longed for more, strove for more. He knew in that moment that he would never touch tea again, would never need tea again. He had found a far greater addiction.

The real blood of seven men and women stained his knife, his hands and his mouth before they brought out a small child – his next victim. The boy looked no older then seven, and he trembled and cowered against the wall as a blood-covered March approached.

"Kill him!"

March grabbed the boy by the hair, tilted his head upwards. The boy screwed his eyes shut, whimpering, as March placed the blade against the child's throat.

"_What've you got there? Best be picking on something your own size." _His own voice, a long forgotten memory, whispered in his head. He hesitated. _"I prefer equal matches when I fight." _The hand holding the knife began to shake.

"Kill him!"

"_MARCH!" _The last cry was an echo of Andy's voice in his head. The small boy in front of him finally opened his eyes and stared fearfully into March's.

His eyes were chocolate brown.

March released the child and staggered back two steps, unable to control his trembling, unable to control the sudden revulsion that rocked his body, fighting against the euphoria. The taste of blood, still in his mouth, sickened him. What had he become?

He dropped to his knees as the world began to spin, ever so slowly and silently, around him. He could see the doctors, standing back and looking angry and dour - he couldn't hear them, but he was sure they were cursing. He could see the guards, two of them, advancing on him, electric prods in their hands emitting blue sparks.

"Kill him!"

In the soundlessness surrounding him, March shocked to realize that the command to kill wasn't external anymore. It was in his head.

With a raging howl, he buried his knife into the neck of the nearest guard and collapsed.

…

"We need that boy!"

"We must have him."

Agent White twitched and turned from his men to face the doctors. "You'll have to break him without the boy. We haven't found him. And you are running out of time."

"He won't be broken."

"The queen won't be pleased."

"We need more time."

"And we need the boy."

"It's the only way."

"Find another way!" Agent White glared at the doctors.

"Sir?" An eight of spades cautiously approached his superior.

Agent White wheeled to face him. "What is it?" he snapped.

"There was a boy there... the day we captured him," Eight stated. "He isn't a young child, but it might..."

"Where is he?" the doctors demanded, in chorus.

Eight shifted, a little uncomfortably. "He was brought here... to be a test subject."

"Find him!"

"We must have him."

Agent White's pursed lips twitched involuntarily. "Very well. If he is still alive, give him to the doctors." Then he turned and glared at the twin tormenters. "This had better work, or it will be your heads, not mine."

…

The fire had barely cooled to embers in his veins when they came for him again. Two guards, but not dressed in the white coats of scientists, but rather in the spade-motif suits of White Rabbit.

Andy shrank against the wall as they scanned the room, and cringed as the Eight of Spades pointed to where he was. "Him."

…

It had been four hours... the most rest he had been given in four days, and yet it wasn't restful. Stimulants still flooded his system, keeping every nerve right on edge, though they were no longer supplying his body with strength. The blood euphoria was long gone, though the taste and smell of blood still permeated his senses.

The doctors were winning. He had barely been able to pull himself back from the breaking point this time, and he knew that it might be the last time he was able at all. He had graduated from shadows to real people, innocent people. And it had felt so good, tasted so good.

"You're a killer now."

"There's no turning back."

"Stop fighting it."

"Give in."

"Give in and there will only be pleasure."

"Only pleasure."

It sounded like the doctors. It sounded like the words they'd use, the way they'd talk. But this time it was different. He wasn't hooked up to the helmet. The doctor's weren't there.

The words resounded in his own voice.

In his own head.

Drowning out his conscience.

And they wouldn't stop.

…

Andy trembled and did his best not to recoil, as two identical and sinister doctors circled him like vultures, cackling and practically dancing with glee.

"We've found him!"

"We've found him!"

"He's not such a little boy..."

"... but it is him!"

Then the doctors were gone, leaving him alone in the bare white room.

…

He was in the courtyard again, facing a crippled-looking old woman with fear in her eyes. "Kill her!" the command came. March hissed as he moved forward, his knife at the ready.

"Please, no!" the old woman begged, tears streaming from her eyes.

He paused for a moment. None of the others had ever spoken. Her voice cut through the buzz and the voices that rang in his head, but only for a moment.

"Her blood."

"Taste her blood."

"Give in."

His own voice, echoing in his head, drowned out any further pleas.

He pounced, pulling her head back by the hair, and slicing the knife across her throat. A flood of red coated his knife and his hand, and the voices cheered at the victory.

He licked the knife, tasting the tang of blood on his tongue, and feeling the surge of euphoria. Deep inside and almost gone, tangled in the growing web of madness, his conscience wept.

Three more victims, including the young child from earlier, soon joined his tally, his blood-thirst. The doctors cackled and danced with glee. He was almost ready. One last test.

"Bring the boy!"

"Bring the boy!"

…

Andy.

Everything froze as the guards brought him out. Even the voices in his head were momentarily silent.

Andy's clothes hung in shreds, exposing large patches of skin. His face was too thin. His brown eyes were wild, and he was struggling futilely against the two guards that were dragging him by his arms. He might have been screaming, but March couldn't tell.

But when Andy saw March, he too froze.

And for a long moment, the two just stared mutely at one another.

"Kill him."

"Kill the boy."

"Kill him and it will be over."

"Kill him and you will be free."

The voices inside March's head began again, and he felt himself take a step forward, raising his knife. His eyes never left Andy's, and he could see the horror and terror that filled their brown pools. With a last shred of sanity, he realized that this was the point of no return.

Andy watched his approach, unable to tear his eyes from the madness he saw in March's. They had twisted him, twisted his soul. The evidence was all around – the bloodied knife, the stains on his clothes, the tinge of red at the corner of his mouth. The bodies that littered the courtyard, they had been March's doing. His only friend, now a cold-blooded killer.

"What did they do to you?"

Andy's frantic cry broke through the voices, and March shuddered as though waking up from a nightmare.

"Andy," he whispered, almost reverently. The knife dropped from his hand into the dirt.

Then the hot sizzle of electricity tore through his body. He thought he could hear Andy scream, but it may have been him. His body convulsed and he fell to the ground as white-hot currents flooded through him.

Then one of the doctors was standing over him, a syringe in his hand. "Kill the boy!" he snarled, and the syringe plunged and emptied into his abdomen.

He was on his feet again. The knife was in his hand. The drugs coursed painfully through his body, making it hard to think clearly. And Andy stood before him, looking terrified once again.

It wasn't going to stop.

"Kill him!"

"Kill him!"

"Kill him!"

He could no longer differentiate the doctor's voices from the voices inside his head, not that it mattered. They were all one and the same.

He buried his left hand into the back of Andy's hair, pulling his head back. His right hand came up, bearing the blood-stained knife.

"March... no!" It was barely a whisper, as a tear found its way out of Andy's eye.

March shuddered, but there was no stopping this time. It was over.

Grasping Andy's hair tighter, March pulled him close. He forced Andy to look right into his eyes, to see the last shred of sanity as it died within him.

"The next time you see me, run like hell," he hissed into Andy's ear, and thrust the knife deep into Andy's right shoulder.

Hot red blood coursed over March's hand, flooding his body with the strongest euphoria he had ever experienced, as he pushed Andy away and staggered back.

And the last thing Andy saw, as the guards dragged him out of the courtyard, was March ravenously sucking the blood off his hand.

…

**AN: Gah, this was such a hard chapter to write! Hope I did it justice. Please review. Constructive criticism always welcome as well. **


	19. Chapter 19

The scrawny kid they dragged in looked more dead then alive, but he was still struggling against the guards that held him. His eyes were blown wide and glassy, his skin was sickly white and he was practically slick with sweat – obviously in shock. He alternated between screaming out, "March! March!" and whimpering something about a hat.

His right side was covered in blood from a wound in his shoulder. It wasn't an instantly fatal wound, but several blood vessels had been cut, and the blood was flowing freely. If the shock didn't kill him, the blood loss would in very short order.

The doctor glared at the guards as they brought him in. "What is this?" he snarled.

"You need to fix him," one of the guards informed him. "Dee and Dum want him back. They're using him to break the assassin."

The doctor's eyes darkened at the mention of the sinister duo. They had more power then any other doctors in the place, but their practices were beyond heinous, and most of the staff feared and loathed them.

Heaving a sigh, he nodded in the direction of one of the metal slabs, and the two guards hastily deposited the boy onto it and strapped him down.

The boy was still fighting, using every ounce of his remaining strength, though he barely seemed aware of what was going on around him. He pulled against the bindings and jerked roughly away from the sensors that the doctor was trying to attach to his skin. All the while he was screaming. "March! No! March! What did they do to you?"

"Get me a sedative," the doctor growled at the first lab assistant that passed by.

"Yes, Doctor Bird."

He couldn't risk putting the boy completely under. In his weakened state, that would likely kill him, but he needed the boy to be still if he was to fix the shoulder.

The boy yelped and trembled as the syringe entered his skin, but otherwise seemed unaware of what was going on around him. He still struggled against the bindings, but after a moment, his drugged body rebelled and he slumped, limply, against the table, his yelling giving way to quiet whimpers.

…

"Where is he?"

"We need him!"

"Have you fixed him yet?"

Doctor Bird looked up from the shoulder wound that he was meticulously stitching back together and glared at the intruders. Dee and Dum looked excited and sleep-deprived, and more insane then usual.

"He isn't ready yet," he informed them coldly. "If you want him alive, you'll have to wait at least a few hours."

"We don't have time for that!"

"We need him now!"

Doctor Bird left the shoulder wound and adjusted the IV bag that was draining fresh blood into the boy's body. "You brought me a kid, more dead then alive, and tell me to fix him. So I am fixing him. But it takes time."

The sinister twins leaned over the boy's body, and even in his state of sedated shock, the boy recoiled from them, and the heart monitor started beeping frantically.

"An hour."

"You have an hour."

"He'd better be fixed by then."

And with that, the twins were gone, and the doctor let out an angry hiss. An hour. What did they thing he was? A miracle worker? But he knew if he didn't give the doctors their way, he could expect a visit from Agent White, and that would mean serious trouble.

Doctor Bird's eyes flitted, inadvertently, to another machine across the room. The clear orange liquid swirled through the glass pipes, moving from beaker to beaker, being concentrated and heated, changing its properties. His own personal experiment. He had been working on it for months. It was to be his masterpiece. He hadn't tried it on any test subjects yet – it was still days away from ready for that, but it might...

Doctor Bird abandoned the boy, and strode purposefully across the room to the other machine.

"What are you doing?" one of the guards demanded, as he watched the doctor fill an empty syringe with the orange liquid.

"Trying to fix the boy," Doctor Bird snarled back, as he carried the syringe back across the room as though it were filled with liquid gold. He adjusted the sensors on the boy's skin, checked the machines, then he raised the syringe and plunged it into the shoulder wound.

The boy's agonized screams filled the room. And the machines started going wild.

…

**AN: A guest POV for a chapter. The next chapter will be longer... I was going to make it all one chapter, but with the change of POV, it worked better to make it two. So the next chapter is one that a lot of people have been looking forward to. Can't say any more. **

**Please review! Reviews make my day.**

**Cheers!**


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Sorry, once again, for the really long delay in getting this chapter written. Not an easy one to write, and not one I wanted to rush. Thanks for your patience... I will try to have shorter periods between chapters here on out (can't promise, but will try). Without further ado...**

...

The needle felt like another knife as it stabbed into the wound in his shoulder. He could not control the scream of agony that seemingly tore from every fiber in his body.

But that pain quickly paled in comparison to the sharp, stinging pain that radiated out from his shoulder, filling his whole body. It wasn't like the fire. It was a sensation far worse then the fire. He would have preferred the fire – tearing through his system and finally taking his mind.

This was far different. This was far worse. This was like someone had removed his blood and replaced it with angry bees. And the blackness never came. Instead, his mind seemed to only become sharper and more aware as the stinging reached his head.

Then, just as suddenly, the stinging was gone, the pain from his shoulder was gone. The screams slowed, then stopped. And he lay there on the table, trembling, painfully aware that this was far from over but not knowing what to expect next.

The room was getting hot, stifling. Andy started panting, sweating. It took him a long moment to realize that the heat wasn't coming from the outside. His blood ran, hotter and hotter, until he felt like he couldn't handle it anymore.

Boiling.

They were boiling him alive, from the inside out. He could feel it, his blood roiling and churning in his veins, burning and bubbling. He felt like, at any moment, his skin would start to bubble and come away.

He screamed for relief, begged for unconsciousness, but instead his mind grew sharper and hotter. A rushing sound started in his ears as his mind was starting to boil. His emotions were bubbling, agitating. Every emotion he had ever felt, churning up, stronger then ever, mixing with the others, creating a new emotion, a boiling emotion. He felt as though he was going to blow apart. His whole body was boiling, building to explode.

…

The Seven of Spades shifted uncomfortably and exchanged a worried glance with the Five of Spades at his side.

The boy on the table was rigid and twitching, his skin flushed and his breathing erratic. His eyes were wide open, but it was unlikely he was seeing anything. He wasn't screaming anymore, but that was hardly a relief. Seven was sure the boy wasn't going to make it.

The machines had started beeping and flashing, information appearing on a screen, and since that moment, Doctor Bird had turned away from the boy and the guards, and his attention hadn't wavered from the machine before him.

The boy gave a pained gasp, and twitched violently again.

"You're killing him!" Seven glared angrily at the doctor. They had been given strict orders to have Doctor Bird repair the boy and bring him back to the courtyard. Alive! And if they failed to do that, two very dangerous doctors would be anything but pleased with them. And Seven didn't want to think about what that would mean.

"He's still alive," Doctor Bird snapped back, still not turning from the machine.

"If he dies, I'm handing you over to the doctors... personally," Seven threatened him.

But Doctor Bird didn't respond. The machines started beeping frantically, spewing out more information. And Doctor Bird gasped in amazed elation.

…

Andy could feel his body shaking as the pressure continued to build, as he continued to boil. At any moment, he was sure he would blow apart spectacularly. And then it would be over. He longed for it to be over.

But he didn't blow apart. Instead, and rather suddenly, it started to drain. The pressure, the heat, the pain, the boiling emotion, the boiling blood – all draining away. Through his right shoulder and down into his arm, into his hand, his fingers, leaving him feeling rather hollow.

His right arm burned and tingled and twitched, from his fingertips to his elbow. He couldn't control the tremors, couldn't control its movements. His right hand clenched inadvertently, and he gasped in agony as a new pain shot up his arm. The fist was so tight he felt like his bones would break from where his fingers dug into his palm. He tried to release it, but his hand wouldn't cooperate.

…

Doctor Bird wheeled from the machine, and leaned over the boy on the table, elation and excitement barely contained. The boy was staring about in alarm, but he had survived it. His shoulder wound had all but completely disappeared, and if the machine's readings were correct...

"Untie him!" Doctor Bird ordered and stepped well back.

Seven and Five glanced at each other, a little uncertainly, before starting to undo the bindings.

…

The Seven of Spades never stood a chance.

Andy couldn't control it. The binding rubbed against his right arm as the suit untied it, causing every hyper-sensitive nerve to sing. His arm burned and twitched, his fist getting even tighter, until his fingers felt like they would break through the back of his hand.

And the moment his arm was free, his fist swung upwards into Seven's face.

Time seemed to slow, each second accentuating the sensations. Andy felt flesh and bone collapsing under the force of his hand, heard a sickening snap as the man's skull broke free of his spinal column. Felt the warmth of blood hit his fingers. Then the body fell away, with a metallic clang as it collided with machinery on its way to the floor.

Andy stared in horror at what had, seconds earlier, been a man. The face was demolished, what was left of the skull sitting at a strange angle to the rest of the body, blood flowing from it onto the white concrete. He didn't realize that his fist was still moving on its own, swinging in a wide unstoppable arc, colliding with machinery, tearing metal from metal.

…

Everyone in the room retreated from the boy and his path of destruction. Five fumbled to pull his gun as he backed away, only to have it knocked from his hand. He cursed and glared at Doctor Bird as the man grabbed the gun and turned it on him.

"Don't shoot him. My experiment was a success!" The look in the doctor's eyes, for a moment, nearly rivaled the insanity in the eyes of doctors Dee and Dum.

"A success? He just killed..."

His voice trailed off as an explosion of sparks came from the doomed machine. The boy flew backwards onto the table, twitching involuntarily from the electrical shock. Seeing their opportunity, Doctor Bird and a lab assistant sprang forward and pinned the boy, securing him with a strap across the chest and torso. The lab assistant barely dodged a swing from the boy's right hand as he started to recover, but thankfully the newfound strength didn't appear to extend beyond the boy's lower arm.

A syringe full of sedative later, Doctor Bird stood back and assessed the destruction. One of the White Rabbit agents lay dead on the floor. The machine that the boy had been attached to was a mangled mass of broken glass and twisted metal. Irreparable, and the data it had collected irretrievable. But his experiment, the project he had been working on for so long had worked.

The strength he had seen wielded by that young boy's arm...

…

Heavily sedated and feeling dizzyingly weak, Andy writhed and twisted against the bindings, caught in the grip of a half-conscious nightmare. March, his eyes crazed, holding a knife and licking blood off his hands. The sinister twins leaning over him, demanding him back. The suit, his face staved in and his neck broken, lying in a pool of blood. His lucky hat, rain-soaked and dirty, being blown away, disappearing into the darkness. The doctor leaning over him, holding a syringe of clear orange liquid. And the liquid was boiling.

…

**AN: Another incredibly hard chapter to write. I literally had to drink pots of tea to write this, because what I was picturing was so chilling. I hope it came across alright.**

**Please review. Constructive criticism very welcome as well! Thanks for reading.**

**I think the heaviest and most horrible chapters are completed now... there will be some light at the end of the tunnel soon. Please stay tuned.**


	21. Chapter 21

Agent White looked back and forth, from the dead body of his agent and the mangled wreck of the machine, to the scrawny boy strapped to the table, eyes open but not seeing.

"He's ours."

"You gave him to us."

"We need him to complete our work with the assassin." Dee and Dum were seething.

"I need him to complete my work," Doctor Bird countered angrily, avoiding the black gazes that the twins were shooting him. "If I could perfect this..."

Agent White turned toward all the doctors, long enough to silence them all with a glare. Then he turned back, and looked at the boy again. The damage the boy had caused, with only his arm, was beyond impressive. If Doctor Bird could perfect his factor, the possibilities would be endless. This was what they were trying to achieve here.

However, the assassin was also a pressing issue. The queen wanted him – by tomorrow. And if she determined that he was not appropriately serviceable, it wouldn't bode well for his operation either. There was, undeniably, some sort of connection between March and this boy. But, from everything that he had seen, March was already a serviceable assassin. He had killed all the test subjects, save for this boy, without consideration to age or gender.

If this boy was the assassin's only failure, and Doctor Bird's only success...

Doctor Bird took a moment to gloat as Doctor Dee and Doctor Dum were escorted from his lab, still protesting loudly. Then he turned back to the destruction before him. He needed a new machine, and a cleanup crew.

But first...

He crossed the room, and extracted another syringe of orange liquid.

…

When the Queen's new assassin had appeared before her, he seemed as insubordinate as the first time, if not even moreso. He had glared at her, seeking eye contact rather then avoiding it, and had outright called her a bitch. The unconcealed hatred in his eyes was plain to see.

She had nearly ordered him beheaded, and the doctors as well. Had Agent White not insisted on a demonstration, the day would have ended badly for Dee and Dum.

Now as he stood, blood-spattered, over the body of a young Diamond who had the misfortune of vexing the queen that day, the Queen could not conceal the wide and delighted smile that spread across her features.

The mania in his eyes, the blood-lust. The way he dismissively perused the fallen body as he licked the blood off of his fingers. It thrilled her in a way she never thought possible. This assassin would not disappoint her.

"Excellent!" she gushed, as she flounced back toward her throne. "He'll do quite nicely."

…

The queen stared in horror at the creature, that now stood before her.

Shortcuts indeed. It was Mad March's body, but the head... was that a cookie jar? White, ceramic. Shaped like a rabbit. Largely featureless. She could feel her rage start to build.

She rose to her feet, her face thunderous. "What on earth have you done to him?" she managed.

"Think of him as a hybrid, ma'am." Carpenter's smile was forced and did nothing to belie his strain and anxiety. "In many ways he is better then before."

She barely heard him, barely noted that the king was muttering something about manuals. She just strode down toward the disfigured man.

"Not too close, he's still finding his way," Carpenter warned her as she approached her assassin.

She slowly circled around the creature. Mad March still had not said a word, had not moved from the spot he had stopped. He was still. Too still.

"Does he have all his old skills? Forensics? Tracking?" Her eyes got hopeful. "Homicidal mania?"

She looked past Mad March to Carpenter. He looked at the ground, before meeting her gaze nervously. "I believe so," he stated.

"Believe so?" She didn't like the sound of that.

"There wasn't much time for testing," Carpenter replied, just a touch of annoyance entering his tone.

The queen glowered at him. "Does he speak?" Carpenter and Walrus exchanged glances and shrugged. She sighed heavily. "Let's try him out then." She turned back toward her assassin, still finding it hard to contain her irritation at his appearance.

She raised her voice and spoke slowly, unsure if he could even hear her. "Mad March. How are you today?"

The rabbit head twiched and moved for a moment, before a mechanical voice slowly, stiltedly replied, "Piss... off... you... cow."

All the courtiers in the room gasped at the gall of this... thing, speaking to the queen in such a manner. But the queen smiled, and turned toward Carpenter and Walrus. "Excellent." She laughed delightedly. "He's as good as new!"

…

The suits accompanying him to the city were uncomfortable, bordering on fearful now. He could feel it, though his eyes never left the front window of the scarab. They had all seen what he was capable of. They had all heard the queen's words, giving him immunity to kill as he saw fit, provided he was discreet save for when she ordered an assassination. They knew he was untouchable now, and that left them all feeling vulnerable.

And he reveled in their fear, as he carelessly drew his knife from the sheath in his sleeve, and began to twirl it with his fingers.

…

**AN: I know, sorry, short chapter. But it was a good place to break. Sorry for the long delays in updating. Have horrible writers block at the moment.**

**Please make my day and review. Cheers! Thanks for reading.**


	22. Chapter 22

…

Doctor Bird let out an aggravated hiss of frustration as his lab assistant wheeled the dead body away. The readouts from the latest test had shown such promise. After the last injection, the body seemed to be responding, changing. Until the heart stopped beating, and refused to start again.

It was the third fatality in as many days. The factor was too strong, its effects on the body too overwhelming. And yet, if diluted, the factor had no effect at all. Doctor Bird's only success had been the arm of the young boy, and he seemed to be the only subject that could survive the undiluted factor.

"Bring me the boy," Doctor Bird demanded.

"He's too weak," the lab assistant replied, and cringed inwardly at the seething glare that Doctor Bird bestowed on him. "His body needs time to heal. If you try anything right now, it will kill him."

Doctor Bird snarled at his assistant, and the man quickly retreated. But he knew it was true. The boy's body was ravaged. His heart had stopped twice, and the second time they were barely able to restart it. And he knew he could not afford to lose the only, even partly successful, subject he had. Agent White was already losing patience with him. The loss of the only thing he had to show for his work could prove catastrophic.

"Bring me another one, then."

…

The coolness of the cement floor was a welcome relief from the boiling heat that had plagued him for what felt like an eternity. He drifted in and out of consciousness, in and out of dreams, barely able to tell reality for imaginary anymore. Pain wracked his tortured body, his constant companion whether conscious or not.

When he finally did awake fully, it was to a near-empty cell. Once full of inmates – test subjects for the insane scientists – it was now nearly deserted. Three of the cots were occupied, and there was a woman curled up against the cement wall, in the corner.

A plate of food lay, untouched, just inside the metal door. Grimacing at every movement, Andy made his way to it, and clumsily grasped at a piece of bread. It was instantly reduced to crumbs as his right hand clamped, uncontrollably, around it. Cursing, he reached out his left hand instead and grasped another piece, and slowly brought it to his mouth.

What had they done to him?

…

It had been a long day. It had been three long days. Doctor Bird's lab assistant yawned and wiped at his eyes, trying to push away the fatigue as he made his way through the halls and up the stairs toward the exit. He took a deep breath as fresh air blew against his face, and he let the door swing shut behind him. It bounced back slightly from the frame but didn't catch. He looked up and down the narrow ledge, looking for anyone who might see him, before pulling a piece of charcoal from his pocket. He crushed it between his hand and the doorjamb, leaving a sooty mark on the faded blue paint.

Then he dusted his hands off, and made his way down the ledge and across a bridge. He'd done his part. The Resistance would take it from here.

…

Andy woke up screaming, his body coated in sweat and wracked with fever. Sobs and rage tore through him, as uncontrollable as his right hand. Cracks radiated along the cement wall by his head, and the cot he had been sleeping on was mostly demolished. The two other inmates still in the cell with him, a man and a woman, were both cowering, as far from him as they could get.

As the dream dissipated, so did the sobs, leaving him exhausted. But the emotions wouldn't dissipate. They all buzzed about, dark and twisted, just beneath the surface, feeling barely contained by his skin. He wondered if this was what madness felt like. As the hours wore on, he sank into a dark despair. He kept picturing March's knife, bloodied, plunging into his heart instead of his shoulder, and he found himself almost wishing that was what had happened.

Rage flooded him again, and he drove his right hand into the floor.

...

He must have fallen asleep again, leaning against the wall of the cement cell. But Andy awoke to the faint staccato of gunfire somewhere in the building. He heard footsteps rush by the metal door, then run back the other way.

The other two prisoners heard it too. They were now standing near the metal door, straining to hear what was going on on the other side.

Andy pulled himself to his feet, but found that his legs were barely able to hold him up. Leaning heavily on the wall, he pulled himself along toward the door as well.

The woman instantly backed away as he approached, fear evident in her eyes. The thin, middle-aged man looked frightened as well, but remained at the door, a look of hope starting to dawn in his eyes as he pressed his ear against the door.

"Resistance fighters," he said finally, his pinched face transforming into a weak smile. "They're here to save us."

Andy gasped painfully, as his body fought hard against the glimmer of hope that rose in his chest. His right hand burned and twitched, and he wrapped his left hand around it, protectively.

Something thudded hard against the other side of the metal door, causing them all to jump. A gunshot blast echoed harshly through the door, followed by muffled yells. And just like that, the fighting moved past the door. They were being left behind.

The pain in his right arm increased, his hand balled into an excruciating fist. The man barely jumped out of the way as Andy's arm swung forward, his fist connecting hard with the metal door. It bent sharply outwards, the hinges bursting apart, leaving it barely hanging by what remained of its lock. The man stared at Andy for a moment, before grabbing the arm of the woman, and rushing through the opening.

Andy took a staggering step forward, lost his footing, and crashed to his knees. He struggled to get back to his feet, but he had no strength left. His mind was swirling, and blackness crept into the edges of his vision.

He barely felt the strong arm that wrapped around his waist, halting his collapse. But he would always remember the last thing he saw before the blackness took him. The gentle and concerned eyes of Doctor Bird's lab assistant.

…

**AN: Okay, really fought with this chapter, but hopefully it turned out okay. Constructive criticism welcome!**

**I'm personally looking very much forward to my next couple of chapters... and I will hopefully have them up fairly quickly.**

**Please review and let me know what you think. :D Cheers!**


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: As with my other stories, so very sorry for the long update time. Writer's block has been my constant companion for a while now, and so breaking through and getting chapters done has been a long, hard process. Thanks for your patience.**

**Please review! :)**

...

The emotions came back first. Pain and fear and... hope? But it wasn't hope. Hope shouldn't hurt. But the hope was all mixed up, rolled together with the fear and the pain, and throbbing to get out.

Andy's throat was throbbing, raw and dry. He tried to swallow, but he couldn't. There was something in his throat, something hard. Panic now joined the emotions coursing through his body. He could feel the sensors on his skin again, feel needles in his arm.

His body swam upwards to full consciousness, and bright white light pierced to the back of his skull as his eyes flew open, to a white room filled with metal machines. He was hooked up to a machine. He hadn't escaped.

The hard thing in his throat was choking him now, and he lunged upwards, grasping at the tube protruding from his mouth and pulling it upward. He retched and choked, and nearly fell off the narrow bed as agony and nausea overwhelmed him.

He wasn't tied down. Confusion joined the swirling maelstrom, but he barely noticed as he frantically tore at the sensors, at the needle in his arm. He flailed at the machine with his right fist, and part of it collapsed in a shower of sparks. He was on his feet now, but his legs would barely move. He staggered, collapsed to the ground, pulled himself back up and swung again.

He had been tricked. They still had him. They were still destroying him. Rage joined the tempest, and he swung again and again at the machine he had been attached to. Distantly, he could hear an alarm going off, and the running of feet, but they were all but drowned out by the rushing in his ears.

Two men in white coats rushed into the room, just as he drove his fist through the machine once again. Sharing a look of alarm, the men disappeared back through the door, shutting and barring it behind them.

He still felt wobbly, but his legs were starting to respond. He flew at the door and it shattered in front of him. He could barely control his body, barely see, barely hear over the flow of blood. He was barely aware of his own unearthly howls. He just pushed forward, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

He was being followed, a sea of white lab coats. They were trying to rein him in, trying to stop him, but were afraid to get too close. There were so many, too many. Though his vision was swimming, he could see the syringes in their hands.

Syringes of fire.

"NO!"

…

Caterpillar inhaled deeply on the pipe of his hookah and softly blew a smoke ring. "So, he woke up." It was a statement, not a question, and spoken in such a calm monotone that the doctor wondered if Caterpillar truly understood what he had told him.

"Earlier today, he was barely breathing. Now, he's tearing the west wing apart." The doctor in the white lab coat was panting, his voice tight and frantic. "He has strength, like we've never seen before. But he's out of control!"

"Hmm." Caterpillar looked at the man for a long moment through his thick spectacles, then drew another slow breath from the hookah.

"What do we do? We're trying to sedate him, but we can't get close enough."

"Room 572." Caterpillar's voice remained calm and monotone. "We'll use the mirror."

…

His body was screaming, his arm was in agony, and there was blood, his blood. On his skin. On his clothes.

His world was spinning faster now, and his body was failing. He didn't know how long he had been running. How long he had been fighting. He dragged himself back up, but then the white lab coats were in front of him too. He lunged at them, but they were out of reach, and he stumbled again.

Stumbled hard, falling against a large observation window. It was solid, but only for a moment, then it dissolved behind him and he tumbled through into a small white room. He lay, stunned, on the floor for a moment, but his mind wouldn't let his body rest. At any moment, the lab coats would come streaming through the glass too, and there would be more torture.

He flew at the far wall, but his body was failing him. As his fist drove, hard, against the concrete, he felt himself collapsing again.

Helplessly he turned toward the glass that had let him in, waiting for the lab coats to stream through. The glass was mirrored on this side, and though no men streamed through, Andy recoiled from what he saw.

A scrawny, too thin boy, his torn white hospital clothing stained with blood and dirt stared back at him, with wild eyes. Chaotic hair stuck up, hatless, in all directions. His right arm was swollen to nearly twice its size, and covered in cuts and blood.

He whimpered but no sound came out. He tried to look away, but found he couldn't. His eyes were riveted, locked, unblinking, with the eyes of the reflection before him.

The mirror wavered, and suddenly he found he was looking back into the room, looking at himself, curled up on the floor and staring blankly into the glass. Panicking, he rushed at the glass, but the boy on the other side didn't move. He hit at it with his right arm, but it simply connected hard with an unyielding surface. He was trapped inside the mirror.

And the background began to swirl around him.

…

**AN: For those who have read Of Tea and Tension, this chapter is closely tied to chapter 12 of that story. **

**I know this chapter was short... sorry. But March will be making a reappearance next chapter. :) Stay tuned. Cheers!**


	24. Chapter 24

Seeing through a small camera in his neck, rather then his eyes, gave Mad March a dim and rather distorted image of his surroundings. His peripheral vision was largely blurred, like he was seeing through dirty glass, while the center of his vision, though clear, was slightly magnified and warped like a faulty mirror. But if he kept what he was looking at to the center of his vision, he managed well enough.

But he would hardly call it sight. Then again, he would hardly call the ridiculous white cookie jar a head either. But he was stuck with it anyway.

And it didn't take perfect vision for March to see who it was standing at the other end of the bridge, half hiding behind the red call-box.

He was still wearing that battered brown hat.

…

His latest mark had been entirely too easy. A fat, greasy-looking older man, so strung out on tea that he couldn't have made a rational attempt to escape if he had tried. Which he didn't. He had made a half-hearted attempt to bribe March with what was left of his tea – barely half a dose of Ecstasy – and then had simply started blubbering when March had pulled the knife out of his sleeve.

And now he was just a corpse.

Sparing him one last look of disgust, March wiped his blade clean on a part of the man's shirt not already soaked in blood, before sheathing it once again and striding through the door and back out onto the narrow ledge that ran the length of the building.

He took a slow, deep breath of late-afternoon air, but he could still smell the stink of the man's blood. Raising his arm, he glared distastefully at the sleeve of his jacket, damp, the red barely discernible on the black fabric.

He peeled the coat off instantly, and held it for just a moment before letting it drop over the edge of the walk, and watching it flutter down into the darkness.

And that's when he saw it.

When Andy's blood had flooded over his hand, flowing from the wound March's knife had inflicted in his shoulder, March's mind had blown apart. All he was, all he had been, all his memories - still there, but like pieces of a puzzle, all in pieces and scattered in his subconscious.

But there, two levels down, he saw a hat. A battered-looking brown porkpie hat. And a few pieces of his mind snapped together again in a shot of white-hot agony.

He didn't know how he got down there. Had he jumped, or just run like he had never run before? But in an instant he had the hat in his hand, and the young boy – though not the right young boy, this one was blonde – standing before him was protesting. Protesting rather loudly, about how it was his, he had found it.

But the protests died on the boy's lips as March drew the knife from his sleeve. The boy's eyes widened, and in an instant he was fleeing for his life, the hat forgotten.

But he needn't have worried. If the boy had looked back, he would have seen the man, sitting on the edge of the ledge, staring, almost blankly, at the hat in his hand.

…

"Progress?" Caterpillar barely looked up from the manuscripts that were scattered throughout the rowboat, barely glanced at the frantic and disheveled looking doctor standing at the pool's edge.

As if in answer, a loud crash echoed through the ductwork, causing the doctor to jump, and glance up at the ceiling nervously.

Caterpillar showed no signs of noticing. "Progress?" he asked again, with just a hint of annoyance marring his monotone.

The doctor released an aggravated breath. "There isn't any."

Caterpillar had initially devised the mirror treatment to cure patients suffering from tea-madness. When teas first came out, they were only available in Excitement, Lust and Delight, all of which were easily harvested and could be taken together without any bad reactions. But as more teas became available – Peace, Serenity, Exhilaration, Calm, Hope – the possibility arose of taking emotions that reacted against each other. Peace and Excitement was the most common, being on opposite ends of the spectrum. If a person overdosed on the two, their emotions would begin to war throwing them into an over-emotional and extremely volatile state. The mirror would hold them immobile while drawing out the excess and conflicting emotions, until their emotional state returned to normal and the madness was gone.

It had seemed the most likely treatment for the boy they had taken from the White Rabbit. His emotion madness, though not caused by tea, had many symptoms in common with tea-madness. And initially it had seemed to work, keeping him from harming himself while drawing the emotions from some of his more painful memories. But the boy had walls. Walls that fiercely guarded certain memories and emotions, and whenever the mirror came close to pushing through them, the boy managed to break free of the mirror. Break free and wreak havoc throughout the hospital.

The doctor shook his head as another loud thud and a slightly haunting cry echoed through the ceiling again. "This isn't working."

Caterpillar gave a non-committal hum, and took a deep breath from his hookah.

…

He was stuck in the mirror again. His mind was foggy and unfocused, making it quieter then usual. He knew that they had drugged him again. He vaguely recalled hospital halls rushing by, and the feel of concrete cracking against his right hand.

He looked back through the glass barrier at himself, laying on the bed, his eyes staring, unblinking, into the mirror. They had tied him up this time – they had left his left hand free, but his right side was strapped down in four places. It felt strange, seeing himself laying there. It only happened when the mirror was dormant. Right now, it was just reflecting the room – the bed, the white walls, the lack of doors. Only in the mirror he wasn't tied. He could move about, but he couldn't get out.

His eyes started to blur as he began to lose his fight with sleep. When the mirror wasn't active, there really wasn't much else to do.

He came awake in the middle of the night, and the first thing he noticed were the bindings on his arm. He could feel them. Which meant that he wasn't in the mirror.

And he wasn't alone. He could feel that too.

His eyes flew open, but refused to focus. He could see a shadow, standing between his bed and the mirror, and he squinted, trying to force his eyes to cooperate. He blinked hard, then let out a strangled cry.

"March."

Then he started to quake, his body reacting to something his mind could barely grasp. Because it was March, but the mad March. His eyes – he had seen those eyes before, seen them as March had cut the life out of his victims. Cold, mindless. Insane.

He struggled, pulling against the bonds that held his right side immobile, but for once, they held. He was powerless.

Then March was on the bed, leaning over him, wordlessly, soundlessly, but he could see the glint of metal in March's hand. Then the knife was against his throat and he froze, certain that this time, March was going to kill him.

"_The next time you see me, run like hell!" _ That's what March had told him. But he couldn't run, couldn't move.

Couldn't scream.

Couldn't do anything but lay there, his best friend, his only friend, about to take his life.

He felt the change before he saw it. The blade pressed against his throat started to shake. He opened his eyes, not realizing that he had squeezed them shut, and he could see a storm brewing in March's eyes – conflict, confusion, pain. And just a flash of something else.

"March?" he croaked out, reaching up with his left hand.

The knife fell to the bed then to the floor with a clatter, and March pulled back sharply, out of his reach. Then he pulled something out from under his jacket and dropped it onto the bed.

Andy looked down in surprise, and when he did his heart clenched so tightly that for a moment he was certain that it had stopped beating entirely. Laying there, dark against the white hospital covers, was a battered brown pork-pie hat. His hat. His lucky hat. The one he'd lost.

Tears sprang to his eyes as he grasped it with his left hand and pulled it tightly against his chest. Then he looked up.

The room was empty. March was nowhere to be seen, and Andy blinked hard again, not entirely sure that it wasn't a dream.

But he could feel the soft-scratchiness of the hat, clenched tightly in his hand.

…

**AN: Sorry for the extremely long wait for this chapter. Hopefully I made it up to you just a little. Please review.**


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